


You Say It’s Enough, In Fact It’s Too Much

by sharkdolphin



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Aegosexuality, BDSM, Background Friendships, Character Study, DDLG, Daddy Kink, Demisexuality, Developing Relationship, Dom John Deacon, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Grey-Asexuality, Healthy Communication, Intimacy, Lithsexuality, Love Languages, Post-Live Aid era, Praise Kink, Protectiveness, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Sensuality, This tag will be deleted when the rating actually reaches E, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-21 00:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21065651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkdolphin/pseuds/sharkdolphin
Summary: “I mean,” you said, trying to hide your returning nervousness behind a chuckle, “I think a lot of our relationship milestones are happening in a different order and at a different pace, uh, than most couples.”John hummed in consideration and nodded his head. “I suppose you could say that, yeah.”“Yeah…” You began speaking, then trailed off, then realised there really wasn’t an elegant way to address this topic of conversation. “I mean, look, I’m already planning on moving in with you, but we haven’t even had sex yet.”“No, we haven’t,” John agreed. Clearly, he’d noticed you being shifty and nervous for the past minute, and now knew precisely why.akaTwo best friends navigating romance, ambiguous sexual feelings, societal expectations, and a life together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I rated this Explicit overall because I like being descriptive when writing sex. There’s also a heavy narrative focus on kink, specifically power exchange. Having said that, both sex and kink will be explored through the eyes of a character who is on the asexual spectrum, so the buildup and progress might not be as _straight_forward (ha!) as you might think.
> 
> Individual chapters will have their ratings and relevant content tags stated in the pre-chapter notes.
> 
> Title is from the lyrics of Get Down, Make Love by Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to reformat my first two chapters by combining them. Kindly proceed to _Chapter 2_, which is the new _Chapter 1_.

**Next Chapter →**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the hustle of being on the road on tour, you seek out an afternoon of respite with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: T
> 
> I’ll be introducing some recurring OCs along the way, and have based their appearances off actors I know.
> 
> In this chapter, you’ll be introduced to Mags ([Melissa Fumero](http://fractured-simplicity.net/daydreaming/gallery/albums/--/B/Brooklyn%20Nine-Nine/008.jpg)).

The wicker handle of the picnic basket was a grounding weight in your hands.

You walked towards chalet 12A, flip flops tapping against the pebbled walkway, but otherwise the resort was rather quiet and peaceful. Everyone else—John’s bandmates, the roadies, the tour managers, your AV crew colleagues—had departed the resort shortly after lunch to make their way to Lake Balaton, where a beachside party awaited. 

* * *

“We’d all be far, far away by three o’ clock, so you and John have yourselves some excellent private quality time together, alright?” Ratty had informed you of the schedule of social events for the upcoming afternoon over lunch, followed up with his usual insinuative teasing, earning him a wide-eyed look of mock horror and genuine embarrassment. He guffawed even as you groaned and half-heartedly flipped him off, and Mags, who’d been sitting beside you, couldn’t help joining in with her giggling. 

“Come on, you guys are just _too cute_ together!” She exclaimed, as if that was a reasonable excuse to _betray_ you like that and laugh along with Ratty. Deep down you were truly flattered that everyone around you seemed to accept you and John as being a couple, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel shy about it sometimes.

(Especially during the ‘sometimes’ when people assumed you two were shagging. You weren’t, truthfully. That probably had a lot to do with John being gentle and patient, waiting for you to make the first move; in initiating anything, or at least in making it known to him you wanted more physicality to your relationship than hugs, kisses, and handholding. But it also had quite a bit to do with you often second guessing what you thought you wanted, and thus not voicing those confusing thoughts.)

* * *

You spotted John sprawled out on a deck chair in the spacious front porch of his chalet that he shared with Roger, Ratty, and Crystal.

Smiling to yourself, you walked up the gradual hill of the chalet’s garden towards the front porch. John had what looked to be a folded map resting on his forehead, shielding his eyes from the daylight as he napped. 

He was wearing a bright printed button-up that he hadn’t buttoned up at all, only the tails of the shirt tucked into his grey beach shorts. A bottle of sunblock lotion sat atop a pile of brochures and local newspapers on the floor beside his chair.

Your footsteps as you approached stirred John from his light sleep, and he stretched out his arms above his head, making a deep hum of contentment. He lifted the brochure from his face and sat up to greet his visitor, face breaking into a broad smile when he saw you.

“Hello there,” he greeted, eyes crinkling in a way that never failed to make your heart swoon. 

“Hey,” you returned, now freshly reminded of the picnic basket you were holding, that John was also looking at with amiable curiousity. “I got this from Ratty, he said he and some others prepared it. Anyway, it’s food, meant to be our tea, since we aren’t joining them at the lake...”

“Oh! You stayed back to have tea with _me_?” John seemed extremely pleased. It was plain for all to see how much you adored him, and treasured his company, and he showed the exact same amount of excitement and joy at being in your company. He’d always made you feel like your time was worth going to great lengths for.

Smiling shyly, you placed the basket on the low round wooden table beside John’s chair; it was more of a repurposed stool than a table, to be frank. John hunched forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he watched you squat by the table and open the basket.

Inside stood an assortment of containers. You handed them one by one to John for inspection.

There were tupperwares that contained food from the buffet provided at lunch—cured meats, hams, and a generic continental salad with enough herbs and olives to satisfy most palates. A few slices of freshly baked bread were wrapped up in beeswax wrap. There was a glass jar of mashed potatoes, and a smaller jar of what could only be its gravy. Wrapped in a serviette was a mismatched pair of dessert spoon and butter knife, likely an afterthought.

It was slightly more than enough food for one person, but not enough for a two-person meal. Presumably, Ratty did not want to assume John would be sharing food. It didn’t matter much—you were a light eater, and had picked out four mini eclairs from Mag’s plate at lunch earlier. 

You remembered seeing a few other fancier dishes at the buffet table, but knew John wouldn’t feel like he missed out on them. After all, the kind of food he liked best were those that could be prepared with less than five ingredients, and in less than half an hour. In that regard, he was actually a very innovative and resourceful chef. (“Maker of edible things,” he would always jokingly correct anyone who tried calling him a ‘chef’.)

Everything from the basket was the kind of food that could be eaten without preheating, and wouldn’t taste terrible even at room temperature. In other words, ideal for the outdoors.

As if to further confirm your thoughts, you saw there was a picnic mat neatly folded and tucked away in a corner of the basket.

What only caught your attention when everything was removed from the basket, was a note written on the resort’s complimentary stationery paper. Recognizing Roger’s elegant handwriting, and seeing it being addressed to John, you handed the note over to him.

After reading the note and chuckling to himself, he handed it back to you, gesturing for you to read it. “You’re right, we have Ratty and Roger to thank for their foresight in expecting me not to turn up for lunch, and definitely not for tea.”

The note read,

_John,_

_Ratty and I saved some of the best (trust us) from lunch so you could stay in today. Bri says remember to keep the jars and the beeswax wrap. _ _We’re off to Mdm Gyorgyike’s party like we said earlier, Crys and some others might be back before sundown but prolly not til 8._

_Don’t you worry about the business socializing and—what do you call it?—shop talk, sweet talking, etc. We’ll handle it, you just have a good rest! _

_I’m also bringing along one of Crys’ cameras. Will let you know if I come across any extra scenic spots I think you might want to visit and take photos at, before we leave for Budapest. See you tonight/tomorrow._

_Enjoy your day!_

“So, picnic here on the front porch?” You were already looking around at the wooden parquet floorboards of the porch and the soft grass of the garden for the best place to unfold the laughably archetypal red-and-white-checkered cloth picnic mat in your hand.

“That does sound lovely, although if you don’t mind, I would actually like to suggest a bit of venturing out of the resort, you know, if you feel inclined.” John unfolded his map and held it out so it was facing you, showing a detailed cartographical representation of nearby Siófok. 

“You see, while the media are distracted by the presence of our esteemed friends at the other side of the lake, I was thinking this’d be the perfect time to explore the town, with all of them unawares,” he explained, lips quirked in a playful smile. 

Your answering grin said it all. “That’s fucking brilliant, let’s do it!”

After consulting the map for all of one minute, the two of you decided on a walk to a park near the northeast entrance of the resort, hopefully to find a good place to have your picnic, and only then see where to head to next from there. 

“Well,” John said, “now I just need to tidy my room, brush my hair, maybe get on some proper trousers, and write Roger a note. You reckon we might have dinner outside, too?”

“I wouldn’t mind, I’m looking forward to trying the cuisine here.” Apart from the goulash served at dinner, you hadn’t tried any Hungarian food after arriving here yesterday afternoon from Vienna via Budapest airport.

Even in Vienna, it was only thanks to chief tour manager Gerry buying an armful of vacuum-packed caramelized pancakes from the airport’s departure hall, that could be checked in with luggage, that most of the crew even had a chance of trying Austrian food, heavily altered schnitzels from room service notwithstanding. (The packed meals during work time had been generic fish and chips.)

Although the tour entourage was traveling the continent, to cities and towns theoretically perfect for holidays, the packed concert schedule, logistical duties for the crew, and publicity duties for the band, made the whole deal a lot more fast-paced than what you would want from a true holiday. But it _was_ work, after all.

John, who told you he’d spent the morning walking around the entire resort and that its facilities were, “well-maintained, otherwise not all that fascinating,” was probably as excited as you were to get a chance at just being a tourist for the afternoon.

“Meantime, come in and have a seat first, please,” he beckoned, leaving the brochure on the deck chair and turning to head inside his chalet.

John was definitely in his more energetic moods today, humming what you believed was a jazz standard as he sauntered around the living room and kitchenette, absent-mindedly picking up after his housemates; gathering used plates and putting them in the dishwasher, distributing the four new bath towels delivered earlier by housekeeping to the en suites of the four bedrooms, sorting through the half-dozen rolls of 35mm film lying on the coffee table in front of you and singling out one roll of entirely unused film, for anyone to use.

He had a gymnast’s body, lithe and lightweight, able to jump and twirl and slink around with fluid ease. Admiring the casual grace with which he moved was a guilty pleasure of yours.

“There are no beverages in this basket, should I pack some soft drinks or are we buying them from town later?” You observed, before adding, “Yes, _soft drinks_, you think I haven’t noticed that monstrous stash over _there_?”

You were referring to the crate of duty-free alcohol sitting unabashedly beside Ratty’s travel case by the doorway to his room, and you were ready to rebut any protests John might have.

Ratty often joked that he’d been hoodwinked into thinking he would become John’s roadie, before John ended up not only assigning him photographer duties but also teaching him how to make countless mixers and cocktails, essentially tutoring Ratty to be his personal bartender. (“I’m recession-proof but also not bloody recognised enough for my multiple careers!”)

You heard John’s theatric sigh shortly before he reemerged from his bedroom, beach shorts replaced with slim-cut jeans, shirt mostly buttoned up, spraying conditioner into his hair.

The mock staring contest between the both of you didn’t last very long, John meeting your deadpan, unimpressed glare with raised eyebrows. “Making sure I don’t deplete my own minibar before the next show, are you?”

“Look, I don’t even know if you’re saving all that for _one_ show, but if you’re gonna chug it down _all_ by yourself on Sunday, then ‘least you should do in the meantime is to rest your liver,” you reasoned, fighting to maintain your unimpressed expression despite being thoroughly charmed by John’s wry smile.

“Alright, alright,” John conceded, as he produced a hairbrush out of his back pocket. “I heard that soft drinks are unnecessarily expensive here, so we might s’well bring our own. Here, help yourself to anything you find in our fridge, we’ve already paid for it.” He lead you into the adjoining kitchenette while running the brush through his hair.

In addition to grabbing two forks for the salad, you picked out two bottles of San Pellegrino, thinking the drink’s relatively mild flavour would go well with the rich Hungarian food you’d be trying. “You gotta take care of that liver of yours, you know,” you said conversationally, the nag merely one of the many ways you had developed of saying, _I care a lot about you_.

“I know,” John agreed, gaze softening. He closed the distance between you and pulled you into a warm hug.

“I really appreciate you looking out for me like that,” John murmured, his hands smoothing circles over your back and lightly squeezing your waist.

You relaxed into his touch, arms tightening the embrace as much as you comfortably could while still holding a bottle of seltzer in each hand behind his back. The faint citrus fragrance of his conditioner mingled with the warmth in your chest as you let yourself hold, and be held, basking the in feeling of _gratitude-happiness-contentment_.

When you stepped away, you realised that John’s hairbrush had been left tangled in his hair so he could hold you. The endearing sight made you throw your head back with laughter, John joining you.

As he took the drink bottles from your hands, he dropped a kiss to the top of your head before saying, “I’ll go find my shoes and then we can go.”

* * *

You stood on the front porch, applying sunblock to your forearms and shins, waiting for John to write his note to Roger. The temperature was warm enough to not need jackets or coats, and the sun at this time of year could be very strong.

Still feeling the tingle of endorphins from being hugged by John, you now considered the bottle of sunblock in your hand as he stepped outside and locked the chalet door behind him.

You thought about how the affectionate touches in your relationship had always come naturally, without expectation or implication.

After you had gotten over your initial pleasant surprise at how comfortable and tactile John was in showing love, you’d begun to reciprocate in kind, too. Leaning your head on his shoulder when you were sitting beside each other; holding a hug slightly tighter for slightly longer; letting yourself fall asleep on the king-sized beds in his hotel suites, when an evening of conversation together went on past one in the morning, and you both felt reluctant for you to leave and return to the single-sized bed of your room. 

Your mind went to all those instances, and came back with the conclusion that your wishes for these affectionate touches were a mutual sentiment, if nothing else.

(The resort felt empty. The afternoon felt like it was sculpted as a gift, for just the two of you.)

“Could you apply sunscreen on my face, please?” You bravely held out the bottle of lotion.

“Of course I could,” was John’s reply.

His fingers were light on your chin, tilting your face up. Then his thumbs were smearing a layer of sunblock over your cheekbones, knuckles lightly brushing your cheeks. Your eyelids fluttered close and heartbeat sped up at how tender his touch was.

Sunblock was applied to your forehead, then the bridge and sides of your nose, then the sides of your eyes, behind your ears, your chin, the sides of your jaw, and finally your cheeks. John’s touch was firm without being rough, gentle without being ticklish.

You felt his hands withdraw when he was done, and timidly opened your eyes to see his warm, affectionate smile, slightly hooded eyes regarding you in a way that left your heart thumping and your knees weak.

Inclining your head slightly, you managed a, “Thank you,” silently grateful that you didn’t sound as embarrassingly shy as you felt.

The lilt of John’s smile was slightly teasing now, which only made you blush harder. He had mercy, however, and didn’t say anything, only bending down to place a chaste kiss to your lips before moving to pick up the picnic basket and walk towards the main footpath.

* * *

The arrangement of imperfectly constructed zinc-roofed huts in between rows of concrete shophouses in Siófok offered a refreshing contrast to the lavish but impersonal architecture of the state-subsidized resort you and John left behind.

Florists were neighbours with bookstore keepers and bicycle renters, although the primary form of business that dominated the town centre was culinary.

Chefs and bakers could be heard juggling orders from customers while also touting their stalls to passing tourists. The scent of spices and deep fried food clung to the light breeze.

You and John had finished your late lunch on a park bench, and had both agreed that you had enough appetite to try out some local snacks. You’d boarded a public bus from the park, and had chosen on a whim to alight where the residential districts seemed to give way to more eclectic buildings and huts.

John, curious, had cross-checked some street names with the map he brought along, which confirmed you were indeed at the heart of town.

That was how you found yourselves walking around the few streets that comprised the town centre, unworried about immediately finding food, and happy to let your senses just take in the new place. 

It wasn’t often in the past two months of touring that you and John had a substantial amount of time entirely to yourselves, with the knowledge that no one or no task would interrupt it.

You enjoyed the companionable silence, occasionally broken with an interesting observation, a question that immediately comes to mind, the pointing out of a store you wanted to stop by for a moment, or a lively debate over which of the many snacks—seen advertised on colourful signboards—would be worth trying if either of you could, say, only choose once.

Both you and John took interest in a quaint bakery at the corner of a row of shophouses, entering to find shelves full of fragrant pastries.

Two fairly large lángos flatbreads were bought to be shared. The shopkeeper had been happy to briefly explain the process of deep-frying the bread, insisting it would have all the best qualities of a pizza and a donut, or dessert and a donut.

One lángos was topped with sour cream, grated cheese, bacon, ham, and parsley. The other had a core of blackcurrant jam, topped with almond flakes and powdered sugar.

You bit into the savoury flatbread first. Flavour exploded in your mouth, parmesan cheese and greasy bacon, the same mouth-watering trick that fast food the world over used to make consumers crave more of it.

“Wow,” you exclaimed, “I think I just exceeded my yearly quota of salt.” The exaggeration was worth John’s chuckle. “It’s so salty, only someone like you would eat it!

“You clearly bought this for yourself, why not just have it,” you continued with mock disdain, thrusting the lángos towards John, whose laughter had only grown. “I’ll take the blackcurrant one for myself, thank you very much.”

“What, and deprive me of getting to experience a sugar overdose?” He asked, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“You don’t deserve to be poisoned by jam and sugar,” you grumbled, taking a bite of the other flatbread to emphasize your point. “Oh shit, this is good.”

John nodded enthusiastically as he chewed on his mouthful of savoury lángos. “The bakery opens late, we could go back and get some supper from there later, perhaps,” he added.

Finishing off your flatbreads within minutes, you continued strolling in the arbitrary direction you were already in, passing by more shophouses, occasionally dropping into a bookstore or antiques shop. 

You eventually found yourselves along a mildly sloping promenade that lead downhill to Lake Balaton. Interest piqued, you walked until you saw the entrance to a boardwalk that skirted the edge of the lake.

The late afternoon sun was now resting behind a gathering of clouds, the summer breeze carrying with it a feeling of calm. (The weather today just seemed to cultivate a feeling of spontaneity.)

Taking John’s hand, you led him towards the boardwalk. “Let’s take a walk.”

“We’ve been walking for the past hour,” he joked, “but if you insist.”

“Smart ass,” you scolded, tugging at his hand, John’s laughter clear and bright as he let himself be pulled along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that the rate of my writing will be on the slower side. Thanks for your patience!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reflect on your developing relationship with John, and whether a peculiar trait of yours was affecting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: T  
[Discussions of sexuality]

“I think I may be attracted to him.”

“_Oh_, that’s nice.” Your residential college friend smiled. “But the look you have tells me it might be more than that,” she carefully pressed. “Do you have feelings for him, too?”

You frowned, not understanding. “Yeah, ‘course I do, that’s why I’m attracted to him—”

“We couldn’t be too sure,” your other friend explained, “since you can be attracted to someone but nothing more, or you can be attracted to someone and also eventually develop feelings for them.”

“Yeah. For instance, I’m attracted to that midfielder bloke from the varsity team ‘cause he’s hot, but I don’t actually like him ‘cause he’s a bit of a chauvinistic arsehole; definitely no feelings there, you see,” your first friend gave as an example.

“I see,” you lied, mind already going through the many other common interests you and your two new friends shared. You took a calculated sip of your stout, ready to change the topic of conversation into something you didn’t have to stumble through.

* * *

This innocuous conversation had stuck with you for years, a near-perfect summation of how your mind inexplicably worked differently, especially when it came to matters of emotional attachment and physical attraction, such as whether they could be experienced independently or not.

It was about a boy you’d desperately wanted to be friends with. You had both lived in the same residential college and went to the same pub nights organised by the Drama and Debate Society, and it had taken just a few weeks into your freshman year for your other newly made friends to notice he was one of the few guys you were willing to go out of your way to talk to. (Applying the law of social relativity, it basically meant you liked him.)

After walking back to hall from the pub together with that boy a few times, you had indeed become friends; you knew enough about each other to be comfortable discussing life aspirations, making cutting jokes, and sharing food.

He would frequently place a hand near your elbow or on your shoulder as you two weaved your way through the crowded pub, and while walking back to hall, and the closeness it implied was thrilling in an intensity you knew surpassed platonic levels.

Nothing much had progressed beyond that. He’d gotten busier with his master’s thesis, you’d soon developed more interest in volunteering for the Student Union’s welfare department than going out drinking every weekend, and those pub nights lost their role as a ‘date proxy’. No other activity came up to fill the gap.

You still waved and made small talk when your paths crossed in the common areas of your residential college, but otherwise spent less and less time together.

He had graduated the following summer, when you had started your second year. You lost contact.

You weren’t too upset, seeing it in the same light as losing a friendship but not agonising over having possibly lost a chance at ‘something more’, since nothing had escalated to the level your hall friends had anticipated it to. That was alright; after all, somewhere deep down you felt as if what you wanted from anything beyond a friendship was too different and incompatible with anyone else.

* * *

Your attention was drawn back to the present by a human voice.

You’d been staring unseeingly at the steady washing of the waves up against the stone-fortified banks below you as your mind had wandered, and only now noticed a street performer on his guitar, sitting at a bench further down the boardwalk from where you and John were.

He was singing in Hungarian, strumming his acoustic guitar, tenor voice carrying pleasantly, the song sounding melancholic with a hint of determined optimism. “He’s good,” you mentioned to John.

The further along the boardwalk you had walked, the less crowded it had become. You walked past the busker as well, making eye contact, acknowledging his friendly smile with a nod of your head.

Without looking, you were almost certain that his awestruck look had come from seeing John smile first in greeting at him.

“I’m looking forward to hearing Freddie and Brian’s acoustic performance of the local folk song,” you said, as the singing became distant again, “and hearing the crowd’s reaction all the way from the audio station, and getting to capture it! I bet it’ll be spectacular, with cheering and all.”

“_I’m_ looking forward to that as well, yeah,” John agreed. “They’ve been practicing it so much, at the previous few soundchecks, too—which confused a bunch of us at first, it was quite funny.” He smiled at the memory. “But yes, I can’t wait, it’ll be one of our more unique acoustic sets I think.”

“Can’t wait to kick back and have a margarita or two while your hardworking friends continue to serenade the crowd, am I right?” You teased.

“Something like that.”

“Too bad they don’t get to rest like you.”

“Hmm, poor souls.” Sardonic acceptance was his most common way of dealing with your semi-ironic jabs.

There were six shows left of the tour, and then you’d be back in London, restarting the process of looking for a new job, probably through your boss Reinhold’s contacts. During that downtime, you also wanted to pursue your other interests, catch up with people you hadn’t seen or spoken to in a while, and maybe find a nonprofit or two to volunteer with.

John didn’t have any upcoming plans for new creative endeavors at the moment, preferring to rely on eureka moments to inspire himself instead of actively seeking out inspiration, and usually starting projects on a sudden whim rather than planning them ahead of time. You also knew he wanted to spend at least the rest of the year taking a break from music to enjoy, as he might put it, “other less rewarding _but_ less stressful things in life,” once he ties up all work-related loose ends, which very likely means his next few months will be project-free.

That would leave both of you with plenty of time to spend together, more than you ever had before, since you had started dating at the beginning of the year. In between your involvement in album production (the very thing that brought you two into each other’s orbit), John cowriting and coproducing two film scores, and the constant alternating between Munich and London for work that frustratingly left one of you in one city most of the time, carving out time for each other had to be a conscious, committed effort.

There was doubtlessly a silver lining to surviving that early challenge, but the thought of having days at a time to yourselves still sounded blissfully exciting, a luxury to look forward to.

“You know,” John began, “since the local crew will be doing so much of the work, including looking after my spare instruments, Ratty won’t have too much to worry about during showtime itself, really.”

His lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Meaning, he’d have the time to make extra drinks. You could come ‘round to the ‘backstage bar’ right before the show, or whenever you’re free _during _the show. That is, if you want.”

You hesitated. At the start of the tour, John had excitedly suggested the idea of you dropping by concert backstage if you wanted to see him before or after a show, or just to be around other people. Intrigued, you’d done just that for the first few shows, but quickly lost interest, something incorrectly interpreted as uncertainty when the Head of Security had once noticed you lingering hesitantly near the dressing rooms during soundcheck.

* * *

“Miss Y/l/n!” He called, surprising you momentarily. Being recognised by upper management still had some getting used to.

“You know you can just go in there anytime you like, right, Miss?” He approached and now stood in front of you, hands on his hips, assessing your bright orange Staff tag with a bemused look.

“You don’t have an Authorised Visitor tag on you, is that why you’re worried? Honestly, I’m surprised Gerry hadn’t thought of getting you one!” The Head of Security laughed.

“Uh, actually.” You then felt obliged to explain that Gerry had, indeed, suggested it right before the tour had begun—that you either apply for a Visitor tag to wear in addition to your Staff tag, or that you be given a bright yellow Senior Staff tag, that less than a dozen other people wore, both of which gave unlimited ‘All Areas’ access.

“I just…don’t think I’ll spend much time around here, anyway, so I didn’t feel the need to have one,” you finished a bit lamely. At most, you’d go to John’s room, wish him good luck, and then head right back to your workstation.

Gerry had understood your reluctance to appear like you were being given special favour with the Senior tag, but he’d needed more persuasion to stop his well-meaning insistence that you be given a Visitor tag. Families and loved ones of the band could all apply for them, he’d reasoned.

(There’d been a change in policy years ago to exclude even ‘close friends’ from consideration because it was becoming too tedious to track who really _was_ a close friend and who was just a nosy acquaintance; that left with the implication that you were considered a _loved one_, and it was something that made your day, in spite of the awkward discussion.)

The Head of Security assured you that all his staff knew they could allow you even to the dressing rooms, and if “some thick-headed bloke” insisted you couldn’t, you could redirect their concern to Crystal, Gerry, himself, et alia.

Either way, the reason for your reluctancy at spending time backstage was hard to explain, because it was hard to admit.

The dressing rooms, where indeed only the few people with the appropriate tags could enter, were private enough, but to get there you had to walk through the entirety of the less heavily policed stadium or arena compound, bumping into permanent and contract crew, adult entertainment crew otherwise affectionately known as ‘travel buddies’, venue-specific staff, and any other random visitors who’d managed to ingratiate themselves into the entourage for the day, along the way.

And there lay the problem; to be backstage at all during these hours was to confront the same kind of hook up culture you had witnessed in uni, a culture of casual sex and ephemeral relationships that you’d repeatedly failed to assimilate into, which made you feel like a lonely outsider with every reminder of its presence. 

The practice of avoidance you used to deal with these feelings of inferiority was based on an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ logic you knew wasn’t a long-term solution, but you argued that if it worked, it worked.

John must’ve assumed you were put off by the tedious socializing required, which _was_ true to an extent, and had waved your apologies off with a wry agreement that, “people can be a real bother sometimes, even if they’re your friends.” Whenever he invited you backstage again out of habit, and you declined, he never pushed the matter.

* * *

“I don’t know…” You winced apologetically.

“Oh, don’t worry then, it’s perfectly alright,” John nodded in understanding. “And, well, come to think of it, there _will_ be an awful lot more contract staff around on Sunday, so I can see why that might, you know, unnerve you a little.”

Once again, you were grateful for his empathy, but at the same time guilty for your lie-by-omission.

While he knew you’d never hooked up with anyone before, you hadn’t felt the need to tell him that you’d never even felt the impulse to hook up with anyone before, excluding John himself.

You were certain you felt _some_ sort of sex drive, an urgent feeling that sometimes just struck you unfathomably, bringing sexual thoughts to the forefront of your mind. But you also knew there was a crucial missing piece to what you were experiencing.

There was a missing link between the abstract desire you felt, and the concrete desire to actually want to have sex that everyone else but you felt; a lapse in understanding that often left you feeling alienated in situations and activities that were meant to be sexually charged.

John must’ve sensed your unease and felt the need to allay it. “I don’t have any plans for after Sunday’s show. We could spend the evening together, if you want. I’d very much like to.”

“Yes, I’d like that too. Thanks for always making time for me, John.”

“Well of course. Spending time with you is my priority, after all.”

Even as you felt a rush of happiness at hearing that, your smile was weighed down a little by guilt.

You’ve learnt so much about each other from the past seven-odd months of being in a friendship that had organically grown into something romantic and special and amazingly meaningful, and yet, there were so many other aspects to this relationship—sexual intimacy being far from the only one, although it made a good example—that could only be explored if you were willing to put aside your insecurities and just _trust in John_.

The next time a chance presented itself, you promised yourself, you’d take a leap of faith and open up about something you felt ashamed of.

Like how your inclination for sexual attraction was so uncommonly low that you’ve never been moved enough to want to act on it. And, if that particular revelation goes well, perhaps it’d also be in John’s interest to know that he was, to date, the sole exception to that ‘never wanting to act on it’ rule.

Would the latter confession be like good news to his ears, or would it still come across as weird? There was only so much you could say to get him to believe you, the rest involved a level of vulnerability you really hoped you could handle when it came down to it. 

Honestly, it was stressful just thinking about _when_ you were going to say _what_, on top of _how_.

“Your idea for drinks still sounds good,” you told John, pushing your worries aside. “And, about me not going backstage—yeah, I guess I’m still not as used to keeping up with people all the time as you are.”

“Hmm, that’s fair. And keeping up with a large group still tires me out after a while, so I completely understand.”

“Yeah. It’s safe to say we’d both prefer a hotel room to a dressing room anyway, right? Where we’d have more space and more time to ourselves, you know what I mean?”

“What you mean?” John smirked, raising his eyebrows. “You mean, it’d be good to have more time and privacy for ourselves, in case we get distracted? And move on from drinking to other things?”

Normally these suggestive jokes were in jest, and meant to provoke laughter from you, but now you instantly became flustered upon realising how easily you’d walked into this one. The fact that you were _just_ thinking about all things sex-related did _not_ help.

“Well…” You grinned sheepishly. “Sooner or later, we actually…might?”

Even with your eyes bashfully averted, you could sense John’s surprise; your reactions to such jokes had never been a reply that was so blatant and forthright.

“Anyway,” you quickly added, deciding at the last second that you didn’t have the guts to broach the subject just yet, “like I said, a post-concert toast sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” He smiled, going along easily with your change of mood without prodding further or backtracking awkwardly.

Comfortable silence settled in again as you walked, only the gentle washing of the waves making any noise. You felt a surge of gratefulness at John’s intuition and understanding.

The both of you soon reached the end of the boardwalk, where a pavilion stood, propped up on rusting iron stilts, its wooden roof the highest point along the entire horizon of low-lying hills rising above the opposite bank of the lake.

“I really needed this afternoon of rest,” John said after a minute or so gazing out at the scenery. “Thank you, Y/n.”

“You know I’m just as thankful as you are,” you replied truthfully.

You were both leaning on the railing, elbows brushing, shoulders touching. Articulating your happiness felt so natural, and it only fed into a virtuous cycle of warm sentimentality.

“I’m glad that we’ll be home soon, and you’ll be staying with me, and we’ll have lots more time to spend together, without having to work around our schedules and all that.” John covered your hand with his, then, stroking affectionately.

That reminder made the anticipation of finishing the tour return to you in a thrilling rush. In fact, you had been meaning to tell John, since you’d made up your mind sometime this week, that you accepted his offer of moving in and living with him, and wanted to formally turn that spare guest room in his house you’d been slowly populating with your belongings into _your room_.

“Oh, I’m looking forward to it, too. In fact,” you began, excitement colouring your voice, “I don’t just want to stay with you, I want to live with you. So, I intend to permanently move out of my apartment by the end of the year.”

You watched as his smile grew into a blinding grin, and elaborated, “My plan is to end my tenancy by October or November.”

“So you _have_ been thinking about it?” John was intertwining your fingers together, telling you all you needed to know about how joyous he was.

“I have,” you agreed. “Like I said, it’s something I want, and I’m really looking forward to it.”

“_Oh, love_. That truly means a lot to me.” You were being enveloped in a fierce hug.

You indulged in the feeling of a warm chest beneath the soft fabric against your cheek, and fingers lightly treading through your hair. Happiness tickled your insides. “This is a milestone, isn’t it? For that I think we definitely need a toast.”

“Right now? But whose idea was it to only bring fizzy water out for our walk?”

“My goodness, you’re incorrigible!” You accused, shoving playfully at John’s arm. “I was going to say, we could use Sunday evening as a chance to celebrate this on top of completing another show, you _addict_.” 

The way John’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled loudly and his shoulders shook with laughter made your heart swell and your chest tighten.

“Are you sure drinking the night away is the best way to celebrate such a milestone, though, love?” He had that knowing smile on him, the one that incidentally made your heart race.

“Why not?” You flirted right back. “I love drunk cuddling with you.” Your head was now nuzzled against his shoulder as you grinned up at him, confidence mostly restored.

(If you weren’t in public, you would’ve probably gone in for a kiss. No matter, you’d have time for kissing later this evening if you got him back to your chalet, since your roommates wouldn’t be returning until late morning.)

“If I’m not in the mood for alcohol, I would always happily accept you making me hot chocolate, anyway. Drunk-on-cocoa cuddling is nice too,” you continued.

“Who says you even need alcohol to get drunk? Barely three glasses in and you’re basically done for,” John teased.

You huffed in mock offence. “You calling me a lightweight? Ugh, everyone’s a lightweight compared to _you_. Tsk! Whatever,” you groused, exaggerating your annoyance to get more laughter out of John.

“So, anyway, it’s a date, yup? Sunday night; I’ll decide what to have for supper while you pick the drinks?”

“It’s a date,” John confirmed. “Sharing a meal and a drink in my room to celebrate an occasion… You know, that’s a relatively conventional way to have a date, compared to the many other unconventional things we do that pass as dates.”

“Ha, well. We’re already quite unconventional, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hmm. We are, aren’t we.”

“I mean,” you said, trying to hide your returning nervousness behind a chuckle, “I think a lot of our relationship milestones are happening in a different order and at a different pace, uh, than most couples.”

John hummed in consideration and nodded his head. “I suppose you could say that, yeah.”

“Yeah…” You began speaking, then trailed off, then realised there really wasn’t an elegant way to address this topic of conversation. “I mean, look, I’m already planning on moving in with you, but we haven’t even had sex yet.”

“No, we haven’t,” he agreed. Clearly, he’d noticed you being shifty and nervous for the past minute, and now knew precisely why.

John had never pushed the topic with you, and you knew he’d never demand something as intensely personal as access to your body, despite the fact that you and him were arguably in the sort of relationship where sexual contact was not only acceptable, but expected.

He did, however, frequently joke about sex with you, but only because you either rolled your eyes and snarked right back or giggled and blushed while stuttering out an unconvincing retort, or anything else in between these two extremes, all ways of affirming you were comfortable with it.

It grew into a frivolous amusement, to dance around the topic, with sarcastically suggestive remarks and intentional double entendres, simply another dialect of the language you and John spoke only to each other.

But right now, you didn’t want to hide behind humour when you finally pointed out that, as far as milestones in significant relationships go, establishing a consistent sex life was undeniably regarded as a highly important one, and it was thanks to some insecurities you harboured that you and him had yet to achieve this goal.

Just thinking about it made your earlier declaration of being ‘unconventional’ feel less like a defiant badge of honour and more like the insult it really was.

Probably sensing your pained awkwardness, John spoke up again. “Is this something you wish to change?” His tone was conversational, no hint of judgement, amusement, suspicion, or even shock in it.

You thought about John’s question, knowing that whatever answer you gave would be taken seriously, for better or for worse.

“Before, uh, before that, I’d just like to say,” you backtracked upon realising you didn’t even know _where to begin_, “that I really enjoy all our intimacy that we have so far.

“I appreciate that I feel safe sharing secrets with you, and that you also trust me in turn with things—like the address of your PO box so I can write you, and your overseas houses you said I could visit—stuff that few others know about.

“I appreciate you being honest with your emotions around me, like when you get stressed sometimes when everyone else is relying on you to get things done, though your initial instinct might be to hide your exhaustion.

“And of course, I enjoy the physical actions—it feels good hugging, making out, just getting to sleep in some mornings, snuggle under the blankets—things like that.”

It was common wisdom to start from familiar ground, and saying what you were grateful for had become a familiar habit by now. John was still listening attentively, his eyes on yours. It grounded you. “Even without sex in the picture, I already love what we currently have,” you reiterated.

It was extremely relieving to see you were being given the time to arrange your thoughts into proper sentences. However, having John wait on your response, looking so unbearably patient, made you all the more self-conscious, so really, both feelings cancelled out and you were back at square one, determined to see your confession through but still nervous.

You willed your doubt away. _John wasn’t going to judge you_, you firmly reminded yourself. “So, sex, right?” 

You inhaled. And exhaled. _Be vulnerable_.

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it, and I really like the idea of being close to you—uh, being sexually intimate. So my answer definitely leans towards a ‘yes’.

“It’s just. There’s so much expectation with sex. It’s talked about like an inevitable part of relationships. Wanting sex is...seen as intuitive, and natural, but to me, it usually doesn’t—it doesn’t feel like that…”

You were stuttering. Your words probably sounded confusing and contradictory. Now John would think you were being obtuse on purpose, and think you were hiding a rejection in there but didn’t have the heart to tell him directly, and—

“So you feel—I don’t want to presume too much, but allow me just this once, honey,” he said, “you firstly feel that how you experience sexual desire is different, and secondly, because of that, you’ve been bothered, thinking about how sex between us might possibly go, because general expectations for it you’ve heard don’t line up with how you personally want to do it? Am I interpreting you correctly?”

Something about the way John phrased his question, upfront yet non-accusatory, made you comfortable enough to look back up at him, still standing beside you, posture at ease, head tilted slightly in reflective contemplation. His concerned expression gentled into something more pleased when he saw you visibly calmer. 

“If I may continue,” John spoke gently. “At the risk of simplifying things a bit, I think there’s no right or wrong way to ‘do it’, really, no such thing as ‘too little’ or ‘too slow’, so long as we’re both on the same page. Does that sound fair?”

You nodded in agreement, finding nothing to object to, marveling at how he was deconstructing the problem.

“So, you said you liked the idea of us being physically intimate, yes?”

You flushed with embarrassment but still nodded, thinking back to earlier at the chalet when John had caressed your face and left you feeling undeniably aroused.

“Well,” he continued, “_ideas_ and _actions_; they’re not the same, yes? This notion of them being separate is what I’ll keep in mind, then, when listening to you tell me what you want from a sexual relationship; I will take you at your word, and try my best not to make assumptions or jump to conclusions.”

John pondered his next words, squinting at nothing in particular as he pursed his lips in thought, before continuing.

“Because, at the end of the day, it’s only what you want to actually _do_ that I should have a say in, since it’ll affect us both, but what’s in your head belongs to you and you alone. And you shouldn’t feel like you owe me _any_ explanation for why you might, for instance, like something in theory but not want it in action.”

“Lastly,” he said, “if your other worry is that I may have thought your feelings for me were lesser simply because they hadn’t included sexual feelings, well, I’ve never seen it that way.

“There are so many ways I have felt loved by you, how could I ever doubt it? I’ve always believed your words and actions—compromises and sacrifices you’ve made for me—what they’ve shown about your sincerity, and I’m always incredibly humbled by how loved I feel.”

The burden in your chest had lifted considerably. You opted to find his hand again, giving it a good squeeze instead of speaking your thanks, _safety-comfort-relief_ forming a lump of emotion in your throat, making words feel small and feeble in the face of your gratitude.

You’re reminded of what you loved most about John, his compassion that came as easily to him as breathing. 

“And, despite what you may’ve heard, us men won’t actually crumple and shrivel up and die just by not having sex, you know.”

His humour finally got you to relax and let out a small laugh. John beamed, taking it as a sign of progress. “Although I suppose I can see why women might think that. But we’re able to survive without sex, for sure. Men aren’t that pitiful, you know.”

“You’re certainly not pitiful,” you agreed with a grin. “I know that, it’s just...” You fought down your embarrassment. “I can’t help feeling bad, sometimes, knowing you’ll have to settle for just, um, jerking off all the time.”

As expected, John broke out in laughter. Not as expected, he didn’t rush to assure you ‘it’s fine’ or ‘I really don’t mind’, or crack another joke.

Instead, he said, “You know, love? You’ve made me feel so trusted, by sharing all that with me. I know it couldn’t’ve been easy.”

“Thanks for always listening, angel.”

“Of course, love, I feel incredibly grateful.”

John was gazing out at the horizon again, laughter lines gentled by the calm, faraway look on his face. The urge to kiss him until you were out of breath was back like a burning ache, familiar and tender.

“There are still many things I haven’t fully opened up to you about, you know,” he mused.

When he turned back to you, his gaze was pensive. “And you bringing up your confused feelings about sex have actually reminded me of being in a very similar situation as you before…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this made me appreciate even more how we now have labels like ‘asexual spectrum’, ‘grey-asexual’, and ‘demisexual’, for people who identify with what these labels describe to have the choice of using them. But on the other hand, a lack of specific language has never stopped queer people throughout history from living their truths, so I’d argue that while labels are powerful, it’s the spirit of self-acceptance behind them that truly matters. 
> 
> We’ll see how John relates to all this ace business <s>once I get over my procrastination</s> soon.
> 
>   
P.s.: Tangentially related to this fic, if you don’t already have bookmarks in your browser for [these](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnU4R3Wlqhs) [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pb-QhUWS_QM) videos by YouTuber _JUUN BROCCOLI_, you should really check them out. They are compilations of John laughing and grinning in various media appearances. 11/10 will make your day. What else do you even need in life?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You end up discovering quite a bit about John, and about yourself. And then you act on that knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: T  
[Discussions of kink and sexuality]

John hunched forward, resting his chin on his hand and giving pause to let his words sink in.

You were instantly intrigued, followed by puzzled. What about the past few minutes of you trying to convey your abysmally low interest in sex could he possibly relate to? Having an abysmally low interest, too?

“You’re giving me the impression that you think we’ve been, you know, going slow purely for _your_ sake,” John said, cutting your train of thought. “And because of that, you feel guilty, somehow?”

Oh. You anticipated where this was going. John saw that your confession had left you still looking unsure, insecure even, and wanted to reassure you that he was okay with how fast or slow you wanted to take things.

Going out of his way to make people feel at ease with themselves was second nature to him, and thus giving compliments and encouragements came as easily to him as smiling and laughing.

“You’re right,” you agreed. “I _know_ I don’t owe you sex, and I don’t feel that our relationship is suffering because of it, which is good.

“It’s just that. I care about you, and I know that being in a sexless relationship for all these months would have _some_ impact on you, no matter how small. And I can’t help feeling kinda at fault, even though logically I know I shouldn’t.”

John frowned. “If I had known you’d been so bothered by this, I would’ve talked about it much sooner,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to bear the weight of uncertainty all this while, not realising that abstaining hasn’t been this huge, bothersome sacrifice to me, that I’m actually as happy as you to take things slow.”

It’s not that you thought John was being patronising, but you couldn’t help feeling as if he was trying to avoid talking about how inconvenienced he felt. And since trust went both ways, you wanted him to be comfortable sharing his concerns with you, too.

“Surely you must’ve felt sexually frustrated sometimes.” There was no point beating around the bush.

“That’s the thing I’ve been meaning to tell you,” John said, and despite the situation he seemed to be holding back a smile. “I don’t normally have much of a sex drive either.”

There was a pause as your mind whirred, processing his words. “I’m sorry?”

“The way in which I experience sexual desire; it’s different from most people, as I think yours is, too.”

_Different_. He said the word like it was merely a description, not an insult.

“Different? How?” You asked, amazed, but also realising a moment too late your questioning tone might have come off as insensitive.

“In a lot of peculiar ways, I dare say,” John replied, chuckling, before you could decide if you needed to apologise or backtrack.

“Even though I like showing physical affection, and I crave the occasional sexual stimulation every once a while,” he began, scratching the back of his neck aimlessly, “I don’t see non-sexual touch as any less intense, so long as there’s, you know, some sort of emotional or romantic element to it.

“When we kiss—and I mean proper snogging, that sort—I feel desire for you, definitely,” he said, smiling bashfully in that breathtakingly endearing way that made you instinctively smile back. “I get all giddy, and excited, and my emotions feel heightened.

“I oftentimes have the strong desire to do something _more_ with you, but in a way, whatever ‘something more’ is to me...isn’t quite the same as what it is to most people, which is, you know, something _more sexual_.”

John paused his talking, gaze drifting back from his hands to look you in the eye, possibly to assess your reaction. You probably looked stunned, more than anything else, and you found yourself hanging on his every word.

The way he had described his feelings—_something more_, yet _isn’t quite the same—_felt familiar on a visceral level. You felt a deep tug of empathy for his self-conscious fumbling, and something akin to deja vu.

“In other words,” John continued, “while I’d like to hold you and snuggle you, and roll around with you...Even make love to you—since you’d brought that up and now I realise it’s not something you’re uncomfortable with—I see these things only as more physical ways of showing love, rather than more valid ways.

“For instance, two people kissing with no other intentions—simply to share a moment together—versus two people kissing as a means of foreplay. It all feels equally intimate to me. Just, you know, _different_.”

The words he spoke sounded rehearsed, though not in a bad way. He sounded like he’d had to explain it to others before, which only made you more intrigued, a thousand questions springing to mind.

“You thought I was uncomfortable with being sexual?” Was the first thing you decided you wanted answered. 

“I had my assumptions.” John shrugged. He immediately added, “But I didn’t see that in a negative light at all. The only thing I’d be doing differently right now if that were true, is promising you that I’d be happy continuing to show you love through other means, none of them sexual. _If_ that were true. But it’s not, is it?”

Despite how shy you still felt discussing this, you knew now was a good chance to get as many of your unspoken feelings out there as you were willing to. “I find the idea of having sex with other people, not necessarily uncomfortable, just…unexciting? Except with you.”

Although he looked slightly taken aback, John smiled at your declaration, pleased and incredibly tender, like he’d received an unexpected compliment he didn’t quite know how to respond to, other than with his habitual charm.

“Although, maybe let’s not start right away,” you hurried to add. John only raised his eyebrows, and you felt your cheeks heat up. “I mean! I’d appreciate it if we were gradual. Um, for example, only doing more, um, touchy stuff, before _actually_—”

Now you wished you hadn’t opened your mouth in the first place. _Goodness_. John, considerately holding back his laughter, was looking at you with such fondness that you didn’t know whether your intense blush came from embarrassment or delight.

(It was a bit of both, but you didn’t want to think too hard about that right now.)

“You lead by example, I’ll follow,” he offered, finally taking pity on you, still grinning from ear to ear. “I know words can desert you sometimes, which is why I don’t expect you to give me the saucy details of every single thing you want to try out, right away.”

“Okay,” you said, tapping a rapid, aimless pattern onto the railing you were leaning on, trying not to physically shrink and curl into a ball of shame.

The distant sound of children shouting drew both of you back to your surroundings. A family of three small figures appeared on the horizon, walking in the same direction you and John had came.

“I’m grateful we’re having this conversation,” John mused. “You were courageous enough to bring this up, otherwise who knows how much longer I would’ve been ignorant in my incorrect assumptions of you.”

“It’s not your fault, John,” you insisted.

“Just like how it isn’t yours, I suppose,” he conceded after a moment. “Yes, well. I guess you’re right that there’s no point feeling guilty.” He kissed you on the nose. “And I’m so happy you’ll be moving in when we get home.”

You grinned. “I don’t think I want to pack my apartment or look at my letters and bills for at least a week after getting back, though. We both deserve to laze around your house for a bit. Enjoy a life of sedentariness and lethargy for once, you know?”

John was laughing. “Is that subtle permission for me to use your moving in as an excuse to dodge all the afterparties I want, Y/n?”

“There’ll still be _more_ parties after Knebworth Park?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past our London-based team to want a few thrown for their benefit,” John explained, growing even more amused by your dumbfounded expression. “And we’re actually well within budget, amazingly enough, so I reckon a gala dinner or two would be the favoured way to spend it off. And the London premiere for Highlander isn’t far off, either. Basically, yes…”

“Oh, _wow_,” you lamented, “I’m already growing exhausted just listening to you.” It was impossible to mean what you complained in that moment though, what with John’s laughter filling everything around him with so much warmth that there was no space left for negativity.

The sun was slowly heading towards the horizon. You usually didn’t wear a watch on you outside of work, but guessed from the time of yesterday’s sunset that it should be past seven now.

“We should find dinner first and continue talking later,” John suggested. “I’m sure you’d still like to explore the other parts of town we didn’t pass by earlier on.”

“Yes, dinner,” you agreed. “Where’s your map?”

* * *

You walked back the way you came in silence, a step behind John rather than by his side, as if your self-consciousness could be hidden like this, out of his view.

He took notice, though, and kept turning back to check on you. Eventually, after you had walked past the same family of three and were back to having a good stretch of boardwalk all to yourselves, he spoke up.

“Would you like to hear more about my sex life,” John asked, “or are you sick and tired of this topic already?”

You burst out laughing, recognising his attempt at balancing the scales—by putting himself in an embarrassing position—for what it was. “I get to learn more about your super kinky, ultra steamy, top secret escapades? How can I resist?” 

You still didn’t know the full story of how John had earned his awe-inspiring reputation within the various BDSM communities scattered across the European cities—and a few North American ones—but knew enough to join in the good-natured teasing from his bandmates and roadies.

“Well, in a way, that’s exactly it, the reason I used to be so involved in kink.”

“You mean…you don’t want to have sex very often, but when you do, you like having kinky sex?” You were certain your expression read as perplexed, although John thankfully found that amusing rather than offensive.

“Most of the time I’d have what I like to call kinky ‘not-exactly-sex’,” he said.

“I’ve found that I enjoy sex a lot more when I’m allowed to control the situation. Previously, I often found myself going through the motions of screwing someone, just to get to the naked cuddling part at the end that I truly wanted. It felt silly, in a way.

“But as a dom, I don’t have to screw them if I don’t feel like it that day. I can simply get both of us naked, and then cuddle. Or touch them, without letting them touch me, if I don’t want to be touched that day. I can shape and influence how everything goes, so long as it’s within the boundaries of what the sub wants.

“The way things are negotiated among kinky folk is rather unique, but I’ve found it incredibly helpful. You’re expected to be very honest about things, which, you know, minimises the need for second guessing.”

John seemed to be watching your reaction. Fulfilled yet still wanting, your curiousity changed course again as you considered the fact that he hadn’t mentioned bondage, punishments, or sadism so far.

“Aren’t you experienced with, um…ropes, cuffs, riding crops, and toys, as well?”

“Yes, fairly.” His forwardness at a topic usually shrouded in overcompensated rationalization even by its practitioners was refreshing, and some of it carried over to you.

“And is that experience, when you’re topping people—Do you think that it’s influenced by how you only feel sexual attraction infrequently?”

“Influence, hmm,” he echoed, thinking. “I wouldn’t say ‘infrequently’, to be honest; that’s maybe not the most accurate word,” he added, swerving his focus. “There’s an urge that feels _there_, reasonably frequent, it’s just, well. I chose my partners based on whether we had a connection, so I did feel strongly for them, but sometimes it’s almost like it was the situation, you know, and not even the person that’d cause me to feel aroused.

“It’s alright if you find that a bit odd, because I find it odd too,” John huffed in easy amusement. It lacked the self-deprecation you knew would be there if you were the one speaking, and you admired him for it.

“So, would that feeling of not knowing what causes your arousal…does it apply to vanilla situations, vanilla relationships, too?” You asked. Interestingly, the possibility of not being the cause of John’s arousal during a sexual situation didn’t upset you, although from secondhand knowledge you knew that wanting your desire reciprocated was a ‘normal’ thing.

(But if ‘different’ could be a word without being an insult, then perhaps ‘normal’ could be a word without being a requirement, too.)

“You mean ours?” Thankfully he’d caught your implied meaning, and even more thankfully he didn’t turn apologetic, because you weren’t after an apology from him, after all. “Erm. I can’t quite say for certain, if you believe me.”

“Yeah, I believe you,” you assured. “I mean, there’ll always be things that still need figuring out, won’t there?”

With John’s hum of agreement came a change in the direction of your conversation, as he turned to the brochure in his hand; he wanted your opinion on where to head to next.

The lake was behind you, and you were now back at the town plaza, surrounded by cyclists and pedestrians. Some hunted down efficient straight lines to their destination, others meandered. At the back of your mind, you marveled at how you and John were expanding what you knew about each other right here on unfamiliar pavement.

* * *

Dinner at a local cookhouse was a quiet affair, you and John sharing a clear pork rib broth, with side servings of buttered rice. You were surprised at how high the proportion of tourists seemed to be, recognising the various Western European languages by sound, as well as a few stray English speakers from America or Britain, sitting in groups at the al fresco area, drinking and socialising.

Your eyes were constantly wandering, taking in your quaint surroundings, somehow hoping the peeling turquoise paint on the walls could help you better understand and process the revelations John had given you. He appeared to be in a similar frame of mind, chewing his food almost contemplatively, possibly also lost in thought.

It had become a common sight to you for John to start a day off loud and animated, and slowly mellow with the hours, so he became quieter in the evening. Even then, he never lost his enthusiasm for life; even now, he was poking at the broth’s ingredients, pushing an incredibly succulent looking rib to the side of the bowl facing you, carrying the smile he had for whenever he discovered something he knew would imminently put a smile on someone else’s face.

“We’re supposed to be sharing, John. I want to see you eating the good stuff too,” you protested, despite knowing its futility.

“All the ribs were good.” He grinned. The last remaining rib in the bowl was a back rib, stitched with fatty tissue, and clearly the most prime one in the entire dish. He nudged a submerged cut of corn towards you as well, because it was one of your favourite vegetables.

“Thanks, John,” you said, smiling bashfully, dishing both the rib and the corn out onto your plate. It was extraordinary how he could continuously find happiness from moments as small as _this_, but that was what made him one of a kind, you decided.

All in all, dinner was pleasant, if only the slightest bit awkward and anticipatory, the monumental nature of your previous conversations hanging in the air between you.

You very well knew that you were going to have many more conversations about sex and sexuality with John. More conversations about domination and submission, too, if he continued to sense your curiousity and took the initiative to share his insights.

* * *

Your initial plan of returning to the same bakery was sidetracked when you and John decided to explore an entirely new street, where you found yourselves a promising-looking coffeehouse to have supper at, its long chrome counter displaying rows and rows of scrumptious deserts.

With a table that offered far more privacy than the cookhouse, partitioned tastefully from others by potted plants, and a longer time to have parsed your thoughts, you felt more confident in bringing up your curiosities again.

John had previously explained that his main motivation for seeking companionship within the BDSM scene was because the inherent unconventionality of such relationships made it feel less daunting to have unconventional requests as well, from keeping interactions to scheduled dates and meetings, to having multiple partners allowed to come and go—putting less demand on someone with an irregular work schedule and who’s frequently on the road—to being able to lay all the cards on the table when it came to sexual preferences, free of judgement.

He spoke of those experiences like parables rather than exploits, and was barely wistful, and because of that your next question was out of simple inquisitiveness, without insecurity or jealousy.

“Do you miss it?” You asked, as he cut into a rum trifle. “Do you sometimes miss being a dom?”

“Not really,” John replied after a moment of consideration. “My motivation for taking on subs was mainly so I’d have someone to dote on, you see; it felt gratifying to provide a feeling of security for someone, when they were showing you their vulnerabilities, things perhaps they’d never reveal to the larger world…” He trailed off, smoothing his hand repeatedly over his collarbone, his tell for nervousness, dessert momentarily forgotten.

“And, even though you might not think of it that way, being with you, well…” John paused, looking sheepish, “Taking care of you, in a way, has been fulfilling that need for me already.”

“Me? Fulfilling your kinky needs?” It sounded exactly like the kind of friendly, playful joke one of you would come up with for banter’s sake, yet here he was being completely honest.

“It’s not, you know…not something I think I could explain in a single sitting,” he said apologetically. “I don’t even know if I have the words for it.”

“Huh.” Gesturing with your fork, you redirected attention back to the trifle cake, partly to signal to John you didn’t mind not pushing the matter, partly because the cake was delicious, and partly because you now had even more questions for _yourself_.

* * *

The sun had almost set, already hidden behind nearby buildings as it ambled downwards to the horizon. Streetlights had come up. You made use of the bus ride back to the resort to sort through your thoughts as you watched the streets pass by.

You’d always adored the way John approached life with his happy-go-lucky attitude, not hesitating to take the lead and be decisive for others when necessary but otherwise content to linger in the background, relaxed and unhindered by toxic competitiveness. He was an observer, beholding the world as it unfolded before his eyes, almost always in a wry and faintly amused manner, noticing details so many others missed out on.

It perfectly showed his intelligence, but beyond that, he also used the knowledge of the things he picked up on long before others did to their benefit rather than detriment. You loved how it inevitably revealed his compassion, and your heart glowed fiercely with satisfaction every time a new person was able to see through the ceaseless clutter of life enough to realise this for themselves.

You loved how John made people fall in love with him without ever meaning to, and yet, despite the effortless influence he wielded, how others’ respect was still precious to him, something he cherished with kind smiles to strangers and flustered gratitude to friends and deep bows during ground-shaking, ear-splitting curtain calls.

You’d seen him as dominant all along, but had contented yourself with witnessing it in day-to-day life, without any sexual context. All other possibilities your mind had created by extrapolation were treated as such—hypotheticals—because asking John to invite you into that part of his life would’ve meant showing him its equivalent in your life as well.

That had seemed like an idea too intimidating and unworthy of the risk, before today. 

You felt John’s hand on your shoulder, gently stirring you from your thoughts, the scenery outside the bus window suddenly familiar; it was the street right outside your resort, where you’d both meant to alight.

Stepping out from the bus and into the twilight breeze, you smiled to yourself as both you and him reached out halfway to hold hands as you headed back to the resort.

* * *

The lights were on and there was already a small social gathering taking place at John’s chalet. Presumably, a few of the roadies had invited over the new friends they made today.

John dropped inside to return the picnic basket and pick up his personal travel case while you loitered by the common footpath, far enough from the bungalow to not be immediately noticeable, because this evening you didn’t really want to get caught up in conversation with new people, already itching to get back to your own chalet. 

It was a short walk. Switching on the living room lights and fans, taking in the hastily reordered furniture that belied more mess in the kitchenette, you recalled the rushed conversations you and your three housemates had shared over breakfast, before everyone had parted ways for the day.

You remembered feeling exasperated and embarrassed over their friendly teasing last evening and this morning, knowing how high the likelihood was of you asking John to spend the night with you. Their assurances of being able to find other rooms to crash in tonight didn’t have to be laden with innuendo for you to have felt like you’d been on the receiving end of a misattributed compliment, but thankfully, the wariness you’d felt then wasn’t really here now.

You tried to nag John into using the en suite of your room before you, going so far as to hold his Olympus hostage in return for him dropping the large bag of rubbish he was filling with empty food packages that littered the kitchen surfaces.

“Your toiletries are already on my sink, _go_,” you insisted.

“Exactly,” he said, unfazed. “You helped unpack my things, so now I’m taking out the trash.”

“It’s not even _your_ trash,” you protested, carefully setting the SLR down in the centre of the dining table—no way you’d ever risk damaging it—and calculating if it would be worth trying to wrestle the bag out of John’s hands.

“It’s not your trash either, though, is it,” he asked rhetorically, knowing you’d never leave litter and food scraps unattended to potentially attract pests, and guessing it was your housemates’. 

Knowing this battle was lost when he tied up the rubbish bag and was already headed to the back door, you called out after him. “I’m laying out your clothes for tomorrow, then. What’re you wearing?”

“Erm. Yellow shirt, brown chinos…” The rest of John’s words became inaudible as he stepped outside, so you decided to unpack just the items you’d heard, heading to your bedroom where both your luggage were.

* * *

“What did you say earlier on after ‘brown chinos’? I lost you after that.” The two of you were sharing the basin space to wash up, after all.

“Hmm?” John was shaving. You tried making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror, but he was tilting his head upward. You admired the column of his neck, the artificial light showing off his taut muscles in a way it wasn’t obliged to, and the toothbrush in your hand was momentarily forgotten.

Even though you frequently stayed over at John’s rooms during the tour, you’d still kept to the same balance of chaste domesticity that you’d had with him before the tour. His hotel suites were _enormous_, and with more than enough rooms and en suites to yourselves each, not to mention him usually staying up late even on nights without shows, both your pre-sleep and post-waking up routines weren’t things you’d thought of coordinating, simply getting into and getting out of the same bed whenever you needed or wanted to.

Lack of coordination wouldn’t be an issue once you moved into his house. Without the hustle of work, John could see you almost every night and every morning, and you him.

The blade of John’s razor was sharp and dangerous, made harmless in his grasp. In that moment you were absolutely certain he could turn any death-defying task into a mindless chore.

“Didn’t say much, really, was just mumbling to myself, don’t mind me.” Done with shaving, John turned on the tap to wash his razor, and you quickly put the toothbrush in your mouth, pushing thoughts of his hands out of your mind, and relieved for having the pretense of being focused on something else.

* * *

You puttered about the bedroom, packing your belongings into the backpack you’d be bringing on the public bus trip to Budapest you’d planned with your colleagues.

“Today was a great day.” John sighed happily, making himself comfortable against the headboard of the bed so that he was all loose limbs and relaxed suppleness.

Your chalet had two en suites, and you absently wondered if you should hint that you were alright with using your other two housemates’ bathroom, opposite the hallway, to shower, so as to save time.

“Enough to make you not dread tomorrow’s media circus?” You joked.

“Hmm. _Almost_ enough,” he joked back. “Oh! Chris just reminded me of this earlier when I saw him, what he’d told me this morning; he’d managed to convince all the telly stations that Neal, Ratty—and other staff if need be—are capable of filming and providing all the footage they want of us touring the city, and all that. So, there isn’t going to be a film crew following us after the press conference.” 

“So, you’ll be free to just wander—!”

“We’ll be free to just wander around the city in small groups, yes, so long as we each record at least twenty or so minutes of footage of said wandering,” he confirmed. “Which had been our plan anyway, to have some candid videos to accompany the eventual concert broadcast. So, our staff practically don’t have any extra work to do. Perfect plan, really.”

“Ha, it is! Chris had probably been tryna get this idea approved since touchdown yesterday, I presume?”

“Yeah, he’d been in talks with the state media team late into the night,” John said. “Bless his negotiation skills.”

“No wonder you look so pleased today,” you said, sitting down next to John on the bed. Your roommate Soe had moved the dresser table aside and pushed her single bed right next to yours, rearranging the duvets over the fitted sheets so they overlapped across both mattresses to create the illusion of a roughly king-sized bed. Embarrassing, but touching in its own way, despite how often you mock-berated her.

“I suppose. But what really made this day ‘great’ is, you know, having you with me.”

“Aw, stop! You’re embarrassing me,” you chuckled, pulling John into a one-armed hug. His laughter was heavy with satisfaction as he returned the gesture, letting you pillow your head on his shoulder.

The familiar routine of preparing for another long day outdoors by organising your belongings had calmed you and brought you back to the present.

You felt immensely content, cuddling with John. A romantic tension clung almost tangibly to the air, and the burning desires you’d been stoking the whole afternoon now had a chance to hesitantly make themselves known again.

“John, remember you said earlier that for us taking things, um, _further_…” You began, loosening the hug and sitting back to look him in the eye.

John had an encouraging smile on his face, just like he’d had so many times today. It was as comforting as it was relieving, that he always intuitively knew when to not tease you, but rather to step back and give you space to get over your self-consciousness.

“You said that I should lead by example?” _Be vulnerable_, you told yourself.

“Mhmm, yes?”

It felt as if he was listening to you inhale and exhale, like the ticking clock on the wall was awaiting you response.

“What if I don’t want to lead?”

“No?” John questioned, leaning in. You nodded. Your faces were only inches apart.

He was giving you a contemplative look, one filled with a quiet intensity, on the brink of complete understanding. But it was the kindness in his eyes that spurred you to continue speaking.

“No. I’d rather follow.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

You felt calm, focused, in the moment. Despite the rush of adrenaline and heightened senses and tingling anticipation in your veins, you’d never felt more safe, or more ready to trust someone with something so exhilaratingly new.

“But I don’t know if what I do is what you’ll expect.” John spoke softly, as your foreheads touched and noses bumped.

You giggled stupidly, already half lost in the haze of _joy-fondness-affection_ that engulfed the both of you. “I don’t mind. This is nice.”

“Nice, hmm?” This close, you couldn’t actually see him smiling, yet you knew, instinctively, from the way his cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled. “That’s good. ‘Nice’ _is_ the feeling I’m going for.”

The kiss was breathtakingly sweet, indulgent in the way your lips moved slowly against each other. John carded his fingers through your hair, his other arm holding you close as he gently nipped at you and coaxed his tongue against the seam of your lips. 

You were giddy with joy as you smiled against John’s lips, feeling as much as hearing his appreciative hums as he smoothed his hand down from the small of your back to the curve of your ass, still kissing you in a slow, sensual rhythm, something he had perfect control over.

You gasped as you felt his hand on your bum, stroking suggestively. John rarely ever touched you like that, with such purposeful seductiveness behind his playfulness. You giggled as he continued kissing, continued petting, pleasure blooming inside you.

Desire made you bold, and you touched him as well, admiring the leanness of his abdomen as your hand smoothed over his shirt. The pleased noises John made at that were worth absolutely everything, and you couldn’t stop grinning under his attention.

You shared more laughter, and more kisses, letting the arousal slowly build. Everything felt normal, fated, like you and John making out and feeling each other up on a pretend-king-sized-bed was an expected outcome that only needed the unpredictability of life to bring it into place.

It didn’t feel like long before you were breaking away to gasp heavily, feeling pleasantly overwhelmed, and it took you a moment to catch your breath as John’s arms settled around your waist.

“I could tell you’d been wanting to do that the whole day,” he crooned, the teasing edge in his voice making you squirm, but his large hand was suddenly cupping your jaw, stopping you from turning away, and you couldn’t steady yourself on your shaky breath, not as he caressed your cheek with his thumb. 

“You’re adorable when you blush,” John said, leaning in to kiss your cheek, already flushed warm and now _burning_, pulling away with a sly, appreciative smile. “Embarrassed to know you’ve been caught staring a few times, hmm?”

You drew in a sharp inhale, too shocked to respond. John’s gentle rebuke _humiliated_ you, but not in the usual way that simply entailed embarrassment, followed by an urge to hide away and forget the situation ever happened.

Instead, your body reacted carnally, and you shivered as a weight of pure, instinctual _need_ coiled tightly in your core.

John chuckled. There was no way he hadn’t noticed how aroused you were. He leaned in even closer to whisper in your ear. “Would you like to see me without my clothes on, then?” His teasing question made you gasp. You entire body _burned_ with arousal, and—

And, you didn’t know where this was going, though. Despite everything, uncertainty still lurked nearby, because you hadn’t yet figured out how much you were ready for right now.

“I think a shower together would be nice, don’t you?” He clarified.

A bolt of luscious pleasure struck you, as thoughts of _naked, wet and soapy, nice smells, touching_, all raced through your head. John was nuzzling your temple, awaiting your response.

This was the most suggestive thing he’d ever asked of you. Your gut clenched in excitement and your heart skipped. “Sounds great,” you whispered, meaning to sound playful but ending up breathless but not caring either way.

John chuckled, and you felt him embrace you even tighter, an arm below your thighs and another around your back. You squealed as he suddenly picked you up, standing from the bed and effortlessly carrying you as he headed for the bathroom, the casual show of strength turning you on further, even as you grinned giddily and hid your face in the crook of his neck.

John laid you on your feet at the entrance to the bathroom, clicking the lights on and taking your hand as he stepped in, then turning to face you.

What a sight you must have made—flushed and wide-eyed with arousal, docile and silent, shallow breaths and thumping heart making you tremble where you stood.

“Don’t be nervous,” he cooed, leaning down, cupping your cheek and kissing you. “I really do just mean _bathing_, because I reckon we take things one at a time for now. Okay?”

You nodded shyly, cheeks burning from a heady mix of embarrassment and a desire to follow John’s every suggestion. _Thank goodness_, you thought, because anything more sexual than bathing together would probably be too much to handle.

The both of you stood, silently observing each other for a moment. The air was heavy with promise, and the small part of your mind not overwhelmed by the situation wondered why you couldn’t bring yourself to talk.

You loved flirting with John, although, before today, it usually merely amounted to exaggeratedly scandalous comments that neither of you actually meant, shooting them back and forth more for the thrill of making each other laugh than anything else.

Now it just felt odd to even open your mouth and say something, as if speaking without him asking you a question would be speaking out of turn. 

John was watching you, still cradling your face in his hand. You’d always loved it when he treated you like this, delicately and tenderly, with a hint of protectiveness that made you swoon dumbly. 

“May I undress you?” He eventually asked. 

_Of course, the honour’s all yours_, you could’ve joked, or, _getting bold here, aren’t we?_ Instead, you could only find it in yourself to nod meekly.

“Okay,” John acknowledged. He tenderly kissed your forehead, then his hands moved to your waist, gathering the fabric of your tee shirt as he untucked it from your sweatpants. 

He removed your shirt and pulled down your sweatpants, a steadying hand on your waist as you stepped out of them. 

John kissed you again, making warm noises of approval as he explored your lips. Your mind was spinning from the delicious feeling as you timidly kissed back, filling the small space between you with soft whines and heavy breaths.

You felt his fingers trail down your neck, down your bare shoulder, skirting the edges of your bra strap. You always wore sports bras—they just suited your wardrobe and personality better—and you’d never felt more acutely aware of how it fitted around your breasts, or how it seemed to be the only thing keeping your heart within your chest.

He stroked the side of your breast through the fabric, tentatively at first, his steady lips still moving languidly against your trembling lips, then his fingers curled, and his nails scratched lightly, and—

John eased away from the kiss and moved back when he heard you whimper; you really hadn’t meant to let out any noise, but everything had felt too overwhelming, _too good_, and your small amount of self-control had slipped. You cowered in mortification. How pathetic was it to get turned on so easily?

“Hey, love,” John soothed. His hands rested at your waist, and he bent down to try to catch your eye. You kept flitting your gaze away, too ashamed to meet his undeniably patient expression, so he cupped your face again, tilting it up to face him.

“You shouldn’t be silent if I’m doing something you don’t like, love,” he said gently, brows furrowed. Oh god, he was frowning. Your heart sank. Then you caught up to his words, and started stammering your protest. _No, it was all wrong, you liked what was happening!_

“Shhh, _oh Y/n_, it’s okay,” John hushed. “I’ll give you time to tell me your thoughts, I’m not going anywhere,” he assured, kissing your forehead. You whimpered again, feeling very undeserving of the patience in his voice and the gentle restraint in his touch.

“I like it,” you eventually managed. “I really, really like it—you—touching. It’s just…new.” The ineptitude of your speech made you cringe, but John’s hand cradling your face kept you from looking away.

You nearly sobbed in relief when he smiled again, seeming to understand what you meant. “You’re just a bit nervous because we’ve never done this before, but you still like it,” he reiterated, smiling even wider when you nodded.

“Okay, that’s perfectly fine,” he said, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in for a reassuring hug.

You’d never have imagined how achingly _vulnerable_ such a simple gesture could make you feel; mostly bare skin snugly cocooned in John’s embrace, the acceptance in his kind smile making your heart ache with something even stronger than the pleasure in your core.

“Do you still want me to undress you?” He asked. You were glad to not have to face him as you made a noise of affirmation against his shoulder, and he squeezed you tighter.

“I’m so grateful, you know. To know that, despite your nerves, you’re willing to trust me with seeing you like this,” John murmured, petting your hair and kissing your forehead again.

You could still feel the thumping of your heart as you lifted your arms for John to pull your bra over your head. He placed it with your other clothes on the countertop, then started with his own clothes, easily unbuttoning his shirt, neither staring at you nor completely ignoring you, and the normalcy of his actions made you relax ever so slightly by the time he was down to his boxers.

You’d seen John many times in only his boxers or briefs, more times than he’d seen you in just your underwear, since he was generally more comfortable with showing skin than you were. This felt very different from those other moments, though, intimate in a manner that wasn’t just domestic.

“Would you like to pick out a fragrance of shampoo and body wash for us?” John asked.

You looked to the sink countertop while he waited patiently for you to speak. Housekeeping had provided a large range, all in classily designed travel-sized bottles, though it wasn’t being spoilt for choice that made you fumble for a few moments.

“Almond,” you eventually said, voice tiny and hesitant. John beamed at your response, giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek that left you blushing furiously and squirming on the spot even as he stepped away to put both your clothes into a neat pile and lay the bath towels down beside them. 

“Let’s both chuck off our pants at the count of three,” John said when he turned back to you, waggling his eyebrows. His comical expression made you giggle, and just like that, the remainder of your anxiety dissipated. “Three. Two. One!”

You couldn’t stop the laughter that burst from you as both of you bent down in near synchrony to step out of your respective underwear. John plucked the body wash and shampoo from the counter, and slid the panel door to the shower stall open, ushering you in with a comforting hand on your elbow.

The shower spray landed mostly on John’s head and back, and you watched in delight as the riotous, frizzy curls of his hair were tamed into waves by the saturation of water. You let him guide you under the spray next and begin to rinse your hair and face, hyperaware of your proximity together in this shower stall, reasonably spacious by hotel standards, yet always putting the both of you within arm’s reach.

You watched droplets chasing the trail of hair down his chest, and blushed furiously when your gaze went to his crotch. John shut the tap off when you were both drenched, and reached for a bottle, with nothing more than a knowing smile at your blatant yet embarrassed appraisal of him.

“Now, love,” he spoke softly, “I’m going to soap you up and then wash you down, after myself, starting with your hair. I have a way for you to let me know how you feel.” He kissed the back of your hand and rested it on his upper arm.

“You could place your hand on my arm, like this, and squeeze it whenever you think my hands are going somewhere you’re not comfortable with. How does that sound?”

John’s patience as he waited for your answer made you feel fragile yet coveted, and you floundered under the intensity of his tenderness. 

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” you finally mumbled, giving his bicep a gentle squeeze before dropping your hand. “I don’t think I’d feel uncomfortable.” The mere thought of leaving it up to John where he wanted to touch you made heat surge deliciously low in your core.

“Alright then,” he said, giving your nose a kiss. “Thank you for trusting me.”

John used a generous dose of shampoo for himself, and you couldn’t stop a smile spreading on your face as the waves of his hair now drooped even further, sticking to his forehead.

“What are you on about, hmm?” John poured more shampoo onto his hands, its sweet aroma adding to the sweetness in your chest, and made an unconvincing show of irritated suspicion.

He feigned anger with an exaggerated grimace, bringing his soapy hands up in claws, and by the time they descended into your hair you were in a fit of giggles.

John growled playfully as he brought his forehead to yours, while threading his fingers through your hair, working the shampoo in. You squealed, and shivered pleasantly when he traced the skin behind your ears, but grew more and more relaxed to his touch.

As you closed your eyes while he lathered your face with body wash, his earlier words came to mind, and, for the first time, you realized that ‘just bathing’ might be his desire as much as yours.

John made quick work of soaping himself up, the lather giving his entire body an evocative slickness that made you extremely flustered, unsuccessfully feigning nonchalance and desperately wishing you were better at hiding your arousal. 

“I’m thinking of changing my hairstyle, Y/n…” John’s musing regained your attention as he ran soapy hands through his hair. “What do you think of this?” He grinned when you burst into laughter at the mohawk he’d sculpted, and reached out to give you a boop on the nose in return.

“It’s your turn now,” he said, almost to himself, pouring a generous dollop of body wash onto his hands and starting with your shoulders.

John worked with a gentle consistency, slicking you from the neck down, being thorough without lingering anywhere too long. Inexplicably, you found yourself flushing as intensely when you were gripping his shoulder for balance as he took turns soaping the soles of your feet, as you were when he reached in between your legs and ran his hands over your inner thighs.

You’d touched John’s hands enough times to have memorized the differences between both of them; the index and middle finger pads of his right hand were greatly calloused and the thumb was only slightly calloused, while the skin on his entire left hand was roughened.

They were weathered from years of tinkering, years of creating art, and now were perfect for soothing and caressing. His touch clearly carried the intention of caretaking rather than seduction, yet was more than enough to make you feel sumptuously overwhelmed in a manner that wasn’t just physical.

You observed John’s expression of contentment from the corner of your eye, wondering if he felt the subdued atmosphere as acutely as you did. Had he been hoping to do more? You felt guilty for not being able to summon the will to initiate anything more, despite your undeniable feelings of desire. Was this what selfishness looked like? 

“_Oh_, love…” You heard him sigh affectionately, and before you knew it, he was cradling your face again, leaning down to kiss you softly and chastely. “I can feel you overthinking and worrying from where I’m standing.”

John stroked your cheek. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he whispered, face close enough to yours for your breath to hitch at the tenderness in his gaze. He looked so earnest, as if daring you not to believe him. Chest heaving from emotion even when he turned away to finish soaping you up, you found that you couldn’t.

You felt exposed, not just because you were naked, but because your dazed eyes and slightly quivering frame was giving away what you’d kept hidden for so long; nameless desires you didn’t even know the nature of, hopeless daydreams and fantasies built around nebulous ideas rather than images that made you assume you were different in a defective, incomplete, inferior way.

John found you meeting his eyes, likely seeing all the raw emotions you were hesitantly showing, and then he _smiled_, and you realized he hadn’t been looking at you any differently, that his unfiltered joy came from seeing you honest rather than seeing you naked, and you looked away, because the pleasure you’d been feeling was now almost tangible and just this side of _too much_, filling your heart so intensely it hurt.

The spray washed both of you clean, and you luxuriated in more skin on skin contact as John massaged your scalp with water running through your hair, and tenderly rinsed away the suds from your body with the same touch that was equal parts careful and loving.

He gently ushered you out of the shower, and coddled you in a bath towel. It was threadbare compared to those from the extravagant presidential suites he’d stay in at most other cities, but to your reinvigorated senses was unbearably soft—or perhaps it was just the tenderness in his touch as he dried you head to toe, humming the tune of Night Fever as he did, then used another towel for your face and hair.

“How’re you feeling?” John asked after he’d wiped your face with the second towel, wrapping it around your shoulders, only now reaching for a third to wrap around his bare waist.

“Very clean,” you replied, vaguely and distantly horrified at your own words.

John erupted with laughter, pinching your cheek and pulling you in for a hug, recognizing your coping mechanism of dry humour for what it was. 

You hugged back tightly, inhaling the faint scent of almond at the base of his neck and allowing the warmth of his embrace to feed into the mellow burn of pleasure in your gut. You kept your arms wrapped around him and _squeezed_, your heart beating steadily and adoringly in your chest, showing John through touch alone what you couldn’t say in words yet.

* * *

“Sofia rearranged the beds so they’d fit both of us, didn’t she?”

You were grateful John broke the silence with an observation that wasn’t about your demeanour, or how he could apparently reduce you to a skittish mess with nothing more than a few gestures and words.

“Yeah,” you sighed, getting comfortable under the blankets on your side of the bed. “You know how my friends can get when they know we’ll be sharing a room.”

“Mmm, how thoughtful of them.”

“_John_,” you whined, burying your face in your pillow. “You _know_ what this is supposed to mean.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed, and your insides fluttered as you caught a glimpse of his gorgeously devious, unrepentant grin. “Though I’d be lying if I said this was my ideal. You’ll enjoy the bed in my master bedroom a lot better, I think.”

“Oh my _god_, John,” you groaned.

“Okay, okay, I promise not to tease you so much, at least for now,” John laughed, his tone placating, rolling to his side to wrap you in a hug. You squirmed in his arms when he pressed his lips to your cheek in a series of enthusiastic smooches, blushing hard.

He pulled away, still chuckling, and rolled onto his back, fingers loosely intertwined with yours as the only point of contact with you. “Ready for me to turn off the light?”

“Yes,” you mumbled into your pillow. “Goodnight, John.”

“G’night, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shamelessly uses power dynamics as an excuse to peddle as much comfort fluff as humanly possible* 
> 
> As an aside, I’m not distinguishing between the meaning of the words ‘desire’, ‘arousal’, ‘libido’, ‘sex drive’, and ‘sexual attraction’ in my writing, to reflect how people probably saw those concepts at the time (i.e. interchangeable).
> 
> _But_, psychologists and sexologists actually make distinctions between them nowadays, and imo these distinctions are really helpful to anyone questioning if they’re a-spec or not! 👍  
  
Here’s [an article](https://www.healthline.com/health/healthy-sex/female-arousal) that explains the difference between ‘arousal’ and ‘desire’ in people with biologically female anatomy, if you’re so inclined to peruse it. (Webpage and the images on it are safe for work but the content has explicit descriptions of anatomy.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You continue to test the waters of power play with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M  
[Introspection on kink and sexuality] [Brief, mild smut]

One of your earliest and most persistent sexual fantasies was about two nameless, faceless entities.

The first person was incredibly vulnerable, weak by definition. The second person was all-powerful and technically able to harm, abuse or endanger the first person in any capacity they wanted.

They remained as blank canvases of people through the years, onto whom you could paint whatever traits you considered attractive at the time. What never changed about the second person, however, was how unwaveringly respectful they would be towards the first, as if actively renouncing their unfair advantage in power.

Your mind loved to linger on how these ethereal characters would interact, from their first date, to a market trip for some grocery shopping, to watching the stars while huddled together on a picnic mat out by some idealized campsite.

You would feel yourself flush with delight as you imagined the weak person being tended to and reassured of their worth under the attentive care of the strong person.

(‘Weak’ and ‘strong’ were adjectives that didn’t quite suit them. You thought of it as a polarity that didn’t leave either side weak, but didn’t know if there were words for it.)

Although you’d found it childish that most of your peers had avoided discussing sex seriously, as if it was something that could only either be mocked or be ashamed of, you discovered the silver lining to it after everyone had reached the age where they _had_ begun talking more openly about sex.

You’d then had to go through confusing revelation after confusing revelation, that had culminated in the strong suspicion that ‘constantly thinking of sex’ wasn’t so much an embellished inside joke adults had with one another as it was an actual truth, albeit a self-deprecating joke, that you were inexplicably denied the privilege of relating to.

Even after you’d grown to accept that sexual fantasies really _were_ supposed to feature sex as their defining element, you couldn’t stop thinking of what was in your head as ‘sexual’.

Brushing off the devastating intimacy you loved to envision between the couple in your daydreams as ‘strong platonic feelings’, simply because you imagined them spending their nights curled around each other but not necessarily getting off, didn’t feel right to you.

* * *

Caught in the moment where one had just woken up and nothing quite made sense yet, you registered only the comforting warmth of the pillows and quilt surrounding you.

You focused on what you could hear; native avian fauna from beyond the walls of the chalet, and the tinkle of glassware from the next room.

John had, unsurprisingly, already left the bed, being an early riser, and left his pillow leant against you and tucked under your chin. It was a practice he had come up with, to either leave his pillow alone or move it to your side of the bed, letting you know whether he’d only left the bed shortly and would be coming back, or had truly meant to wake up.

You rolled from your back over to your stomach, stretching your back and your limbs. John’s pillow had a whiff of almond fragrance, and you idly realised how eager you were for him to return to his ‘at home smell’, the comforting consistency that came from washing his hair with his favourite brand of shampoo and conditioner.

That thought consequently reminded you of yesterday evening. You shivered pleasantly at the memory, subconsciously pulling John’s pillow closer to yourself and snuggling in its softness.

You would’ve felt shy about showering with John, if he hadn’t been so obviously pleased with you. Your self-consciousness could make up all sorts of excuses, but it couldn’t prevent you from remembering the deeply satisfied way he’d looked at you when you’d followed his instructions and leant into his touch.

Would you have let him do _more_ if he’d wanted? As much as that thought excited you, you realized you didn’t have a clear answer. That was alright for now, but you were determined to figure it out soon.

* * *

“Mornin’, angel,” you called out.

John turned around with a grin. “Ah, I was just about to ask if you’d be alright skipping the sugar and creamer this morning. You see, this brew tastes good completely on its own.” He gave the French press on the dining table an appreciative pat.

“Give it a good few minutes to steep at it’d be perfect. No milk, sugar, or anything needed, I feel. I think you’ll like it.” He tilted his head, giving you a questioning smile.

John so rarely volunteered his opinion on topics he wasn’t already an expert on, you had developed the second nature of immediately trusting his judgement whenever he did say something. “Okay. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” you agreed.

“I haven’t washed up yet, actually, so I’ll be back shortly,” you continued. “I just wanted my morning hug first.” You had walked up to him by then, and habitually wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close as he chuckled mirthfully and offered no resistance to you brushing the neckline of his shirt aside to place a kiss on his collarbone.

You sighed happily, barely stifling your giggling as your hands mapped out their daring path over the dip of his lower back, over the curve of his ass, to the restrained power in his firm thighs and back up to his hips, stroking and squeezing lightly as they went.

“Whatever on Earth is making you so handsy today?” John asked, amusement colouring his voice.

You hummed contentedly, nuzzling into his neck and the intoxicatingly comforting warmth of his embrace. “Mmm, ‘ve actually always wanted t’ do this.”

You could feel as much as hear his chuckle. “What, touch my bum?” He huffed, pretending to sound exasperated. “Least you could’ve done is take me out before that, you know.”

“Mmm.”

Your thoughts were no less amorous when you returned from washing up to a steaming, aromatic mug of light roasted black coffee. You felt energized, sitting across from John, absently nudging his foot with yours, invigorated with knowing what the feel of his soapy hands on your bare skin was like.

Yet, it felt no less intimate to simply sit opposite each other at the dining table and talk about the mundane, to discuss how you planned to spend the day.

You listened as John relayed details he’d heard from Crystal on where he and his bandmates were expected to go, scribbling their so-called ‘ETAs’ at various city landmarks into your dog-eared copy of Lonely Planet.

He finished his coffee before you, then changed into his outing clothes in the middle of the living room so he could keep the conversation going without you having to move from your seat, unconcerned with propriety as he usually was around you.

You teased him about his wardrobe for the day—from the tailored suit he meant to change into for the press conference to his decision to wear speedos under his trousers in case he “got the perfect chance to sunbathe”, pretended to complain about how congested the streets would be once people started coalescing to see the band at the Chain Bridge, and thought aloud about visiting the Danube river.

“The view from the highway is gonna be so much better,” you joked. “Peaceful and sheltered and inconspicuous to the media. All you river cruise people should be jealous of those of us taking the road.”

You watched John clear away the empty mugs and French press, cherishing his content smile as he padded about the chalet, as if its humble interior and expectation of guests doing their own dishwashing wasn’t beneath him despite knowing what the world’s best travel destinations and their top-class service were like. Your thoughts kept returning to how easy it’d been to escalate things physically, yesterday.

When you held out the bottle of sunblock, together with a chap stick taken from your backpack, the slow smile that spread across his face made you insides swoop with excitement. “Do you need my help again?”

You couldn’t meet his knowing gaze as you stammered, “I don’t ‘need’…I just like it when you…help.”

It was a struggle to keep your expression neutral as John’s lotion-slicked fingers traveled over your face. Every sensation came into startling focus as his hands gently soothed and lingered, and you wanted to curl into yourself and hide your burning face in the nearest corner of anything you could find. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” John asked, after his fingers had mapped out every contour of your face, as he twisted the stick of lip balm out.

“I’m…thinking of how you might actually strip naked on the cruise and show off your hot bod to everyone, and reconsidering if my turning down the invite was the right decision,” you joked.

“But you just said taking the coach by highway was the superior travel option with the better view,” he teased back, chuckling mirthfully when you rolled your eyes and grumbled in response.

John held your chin in place with gentle fingers. You flinched slightly as he ran the lip balm over your upper lip. “Keep still,” he said simply. There was no anger in his words, no heat behind his normal voice, yet the command in his tone caused every nerve in your body to light up in arousal.

Being the sole focus of John’s attention was something you’d gotten used to, but having his smoldering gaze follow the path of the lip balm over your lower lip as both of you lapsed into silence was an entirely new thing.

“I promise to keep my speedos on, even when sunbathing.” He smiled teasingly, picking the conversation back up. He closed and pocketed the chap stick, but remained right in your personal space.

“You’d still be almost naked, except for some skimpy swimwear,” you whispered, even as the image of John reclining on a cruise deck—with an irresistibly confident smirk not unlike what he had on right _now_—crossed your mind.

“Don’t worry,” John said, and your clit jumped in shocked arousal as he grazed the underside of your breast with his fingertips, “you’re the only one I allow to see my cock.

“And you’ll be the only one who can touch it, if you ask very nicely,” he purred, leaning down to whisper against your cheek. His finger trailed upward, agonizingly light in its touch, coming to a stop at your hardened nipple and scratching at it lightly through your shirt.

You choked on a moan, breathy and high-pitched, too caught up in the sudden jolt of arousal that had seized you to feel humiliated by it.

John growled, and walked you backwards in a few shuffled steps until your backside was against the edge of the dining table. His arm that curled around your waist made sure you didn’t bump hard into anything, but also kept your body flush against his.

Your mind couldn’t catch up—there was John’s gravelly hum of satisfaction as he nudged his nose up the column of your neck and along the side of your jaw, there was the _searing_ pleasure that was lancing through your body from where his finger was teasing you, and there was the tightening coil of desire in your core and the urgency in your gasped breaths.

Could you initiate a kiss? _Should_ you initiate something? Or wait for John to tell you whatever he wanted to do? Should you be touching him back?

The hand at your waist was splayed wide to hold you in a manner that was both tender and possessive, a combination so _heady_ you were lightheaded with it. You distantly realized John was probably just as aroused, and—what were you supposed to do if he was getting hard? You disliked feeling out of your depth.

“Relax, love,” he breathed across your cheek, his calming words hovering over your skin. The kiss he coaxed against your open mouth was careful and undemanding, but no less passionate. “You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.”

John’s soft promise was a moment of clarity that cut through the haze of your overwhelmed emotions. He wouldn’t hurt you, or rush you into something you didn’t like, of course he wouldn’t. It was an articulation of a truth you believed in wholeheartedly.

You slowly let go, releasing your breath and relaxing your body, fully allowing yourself to melt in his arms.

“That’s it,” he cooed approvingly, caressing your cheek with comforting swipes of his thumb.

John kissed you, slowly, thoroughly, until you were trembling and breathless. Your hands gripped the tabletop, as if afraid that the aching tenderness in his touch would fade away into something harsher if you instead clung desperately to _him_, and gave him the impression—however accurate it was—of neediness.

“You can touch me back, you know,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, a hint of a wry smile in his voice.

Embarrassed, you let go of your death-grips on the table. You ended up with one hand on your thigh, worrying at the fabric of your pyjama pants, and the other hanging limply by your side. You wished to seek out his touch, but didn’t know how.

John gently massaged the juncture of your shoulder and neck while his other hand remained a comforting presence at small of your back. He looked down, no doubt to question your painfully awkward posture and react incredulously and—instead, smiled when he found your hand, lacing your fingers together in the simplest of gestures.

He returned his gaze to your face, and whatever expression of shy, bewildered awe he found there had his eyes lighting up in instant delight.

“We, _heh_, got a bit carried away, din’ we?” John broke into a blinding grin, his uproarious laughter gleeful and unafraid, as if the most sexually charged snogging session you’d ever experienced—_ever_—wasn’t a milestone to be afraid of.

John’s carefree happiness always had a way of radiating to you; even now, with infatuation and bashfulness mingling in your chest, you found the freedom to smile back, looking down at your joined hands and marveling at how lucky you were.

You spared a subtle glance at the crotch of his trousers, fairly certain the alluring bulge you saw there was the beginning of an erection.

Guilt outweighed pleasure again, and you found your mouth suddenly dry from your inability to explain your inaction. How shameful was it that you probably couldn’t even give a proper hand job if asked?

John wasn’t expecting anything, and the depth of his kindness burdened you as much as it comforted. Despite knowing on some level that it wasn’t true, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking he deserved better.

“There’s no right or wrong way to ‘do it’, remember?” John said, giving your hand a gentle squeeze to regain your attention. Your unconscious frown must’ve given your anxieties away, and you immediately schooled your expression, trying for ‘neither guilty nor embarrassed’.

“I know, I remember,” you agreed, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek, a _thank you_ that didn’t feel nearly enough. You hoped he would drop the matter long enough for you to find a way to either manage it or successfully bottle it up.

John stayed holding you, gently swaying to some slow, imagined ballad. The both of you remained in a loose hug until the phone rang less than a minute later.

It took only a few replies and agreements from John’s side for you to deduce that his PA, Wally, was ready to drive him to town for breakfast.

He turned back to you after hanging up. “Well, I best be headed out soon. _You’re_ going to have to wait for at least one of your housemates to return before you leave, aren’t you?”

You sighed, sharing a rueful smile at the moment of intimacy having to end, although your thoughts grew lighter as you told John how your housemates had agreed that you could leave the key with another friend if you were really in a rush, and how getting your traveling mates to catch the 11.45AM bus departing from the resort was actually the greater priority.

Whatever fierce, dizzying mixture of arousal and trepidation you had earlier when making out with John had mellowed into a dull but pleasant ache in your gut by the time you walked him out to the hallway. “Please behave,” you said dryly, fiddling with the collar of his shirt, merely another incarnation of _take care_.

“To be continued, tonight?” He asked, affectionately ruffling your fringe and sweeping it aside. “Even _if_ I have to entertain guests for supper, we’d probably have a few hours or so after dinner to chat.”

“To chat,” you echoed incredulously, an abrupt laugh erupting from you at the extremity of John’s understatement.

“Why not, do you have something else in mind?” He grinned.

“Not really, I can’t think of anything,” you flirted right back. “Okay then, let’s _chat_ tonight.”

John’s smirk gentled into a doting smile. “We’ll take things at a pace you’re comfortable with, okay?” He reassured, taking your hand and kissing it, just one of his many incarnations of _I care a lot about you_. “I’m not going to lose my interest in good old handholding just because you decide to start groping me during our morning hugs.”

“Just for that, I’ll make sure I do it for our goodnight hugs, too.”

John made a comically scandalized face, though he retorted, “You make it sound like a bad thing. On the contrary, I might develop a serious _affinity_ for your wandering hands.”

You didn’t bother to dignify his exaggerated wink with a reply as you shooed him out the door. “Don’t keep Wally waiting, you jerk.”

“I love you too,” John said, giving you a last peck on your lips before he bounded out the door, strutting happily down the footpath and turning to give you a wave before he walked off to the concierge.

* * *

You stood alone at the resort’s transport bay with an assortment of bags laying at your feet. They belonged to the people you’d meant to take the Budapest-bound express coach with, but judging by how late they were going to be, reaching the city in time for lunch would mean having to forgo a stopover in the small town of Fehérvár.

Phoebe stood nearby, waiting for someone else, humming the tune of the Blue Danube Waltz to himself and swaying on the spot as he flipped through his personal planner.

You smiled at his contagious enthusiasm, listening to him use different vocalisations to contrast the smooth strings of the symphony with the punctuating brass and woodwinds.

Roger approached from the opposite direction, greeting you with a grin but making a point to sneak up on Phoebe. He easily picked up on the melody of Phoebe’s singing, also making sweeping gestures with his arms like a conductor, earning a stifled laugh from an onlooking bellhop.

He joined in at the crescendo part, belting out the melody, attracting Phoebe’s delighted laughter and the amused attention of all the other nearby service staff.

“Hey Rog, didn’t think you’d recognise the tune,” Phoebe greeted.

“Of course, mate, I remember it very well, from 2001.”

Phoebe frowned. “Beg pardon, two thousand and one? You can’t mean the _year_?”

“The film,” you decided to chime in, knowing Roger would’ve corrected him too. “2001: A Space Odyssey. Have you—”

“Yeah, he’s seen it, I introduced it to him,” Roger confirmed, waving a dismissive hand at Phoebe in disappointment at his lapse in memory.

“The one you initially mistook for a nature documentary, ‘cause it had apes at the beginning,” Roger elaborated, lips curved in an exasperated but amused smile.

“Oh!” Phoebe said, “_That_. With that evil robot that’d been, eh, spying on everyone, yeah?”

You watched on as the two of them chattered amiably, asking after each other, wondering aloud how the space race might be affecting cinematic depictions of space, and talking about the anticipated go-kart race Roger would be participating in later this afternoon.

“How are you, Y/n?” Roger asked, deciding to rope you into the conversation. “I heard from Crystal that you and John snuck off and had dinner in town yesterday.”

“Yeah, we did.” You smiled, sensing his wry approval. “At a nice cookhouse along Saint Stephen Boulevard.”

“Aw, I miss street food,” he lamented, “or even just ‘regular’ restaurant food. I don’t think we’d have the chance to try any here before we have to leave on Monday.”

“Exactly,” Phoebe agreed. “The fancy meals we’re scheduled into have taken up all our mealtimes.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re smart to travel on public transport and plan your routes through the smaller suburbs, Y/n.”

“Why’re you babysitting your friends’ things, though?” Roger frowned, gesturing at the bags at your feet.

You shrugged. “I anticipated they’d likely get a late start to the morning after last night’s partying, so I helped us all check out, so we wouldn’t have to claim accommodation for the next day. Less paperwork for Reinhold, too,” you added on, hoping a joke would assuage his concern.

“Are those everyone’s coach tickets?” Roger continued with his questions, pointing to the bunch of tickets in your hand.

“Yeah, I bought us tickets,” you said, although still thinking of deflecting the conversation to avoid a possible reproachful comment from Roger about how irresponsible your traveling mates were, since it wasn’t the first time he’d found you looking after other people’s belongings.

Far from being bullied into it, you’d simply decided early on in the tour to commandeer your traveling partners’ belongings and make transport decisions on their behalf whenever you felt it benefitted everyone involved.

The alternative would be relying on everyone in the traveling group—loosely comprised of your colleagues and some tagalongs—to routinely come to a timely consensus on where to visit, what to do, and when; you’d personally reasoned that it’d be a needlessly slow process, evidenced by many wishy-washy discussions that had ultimately still ended with some version of, “Ask Y/n, she’s amazing at planning and knows how to avoid the media crowd.”

This arrangement, which almost everyone in the group had defaulted to, reduced conflicts and disagreements, since you had the final say in things like which bus to take and when to meet at the bus bay, although telling Roger that felt too much like boasting for your liking.

“You’re not actually waiting for anyone to pick you up, though, are you?” You asked Roger, likely preempting Phoebe’s curiousity as well, judging by his nodding. 

“Nah,” he confirmed, “I’m headed straight for the ferry terminal, unlike the others, so I can afford to laze around the resort a while longer. That’s why I’m, ah, just wandering about.” He clapped you affectionately on the shoulder. “I’m glad I bumped into you, Y/n. I feel like we haven’t spoken in _days_!”

“Eh, I guess.” You shrugged apologetically. “We were talking about the seafood menu…at the departure lounge at Vienna Airport.”

“That was barely a conversation!” Roger scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’d say the last time we really had a good chat was on Brian’s birthday. And that’s _ages_ ago!”

You didn’t have to apologise or say anything else before he continued. “Since you attended his party, can I trust that you’ll be attending mine tomorrow?”

You laughed, tickled by Phoebe’s muttered “shameless” and Roger’s dramatic look of yearning. “Of _course_, Roger, I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

He clapped his hands in triumph. “Alright, brill!”

Everyone’s attention was then caught by the arrival of a limo to the transport bay.

Phoebe squinted, before his eyes lit up in recognition at the car’s license plate. “Okay, this is me having to piss off, ‘cause my ride is here.”

He waved good day to you before gesturing meaningfully towards the limo when he turned to Roger. “Yesterday’s dinner guests are in there, so either make yourself scarce or be prepared for more prattling ‘bout the weather.”

“Ah, fine, I’ll be right behind ya,” Roger said, equal parts resigned and indifferent. He turned back to you.

“Your very unpunctual friends oughta buy you lunch, ya know,” he said, pointing again to the luggage bags by your side. “It’s the least they should do.”

“Yeah, well.” You offered another sheepish shrug, flattered by his habitual defensiveness but unsure what else to say.

“I mean it,” Roger reiterated, as he started slowly walking backwards, trailing behind Phoebe. “You need to remind them of what they owe you. You can even think of it as doing them a favour, so they won’t feel so guilty for not realizing sooner you’ve, ah, been picking up after their shit all this while.”

Phoebe, already out of earshot, was greeting the two passengers who’d just alighted, ostensibly to make their presence known to Roger, whose company was understandably in demand. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you said. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Roger grinned, giving you a mock salute, unconcerned that you’ve attracted the attention of the two passengers as well, by association.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Roger. And have a great day!”

“Likewise!” He called out, before finally turning to greet his guests so their attention would be back on him, sparing you from having to be under any further scrutiny. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad that ‘ace angst’ is a theme people are becoming more familiar with, and here I shall put forth the argument that ‘grace angst’ is a thing, too! (Grace is short for grey-asexual.) I’d argue that deciding whether or not graces have a “less difficult time” than aces because they might relate to certain aspects of “the non-ace experience” is meaningless. 
> 
> Everyone’s experience is valid, and if someone says they’re having a difficult time relating to a mainstream experience…maybe we should take their word for it instead of thinking we know better? Food for thought. I now yield back the floor.
> 
> Okay, let’s also address the elephant in the room. Yes, I am actually, seriously, literally using one of _the_ most common erotic tropes EVER—‘older, richer, more famous and powerful, more sexually experienced, dominant man introduces younger, less influential, sexually inexperienced, submissive woman to kinky shenanigans’. 
> 
> It’s a trope that’s been repeated ad nauseam, I know. If I were still a self-conscious hipster I’d probably stick my nose up and lie about myself being “too cool for this trash”. I’m trying not to be one anymore, though. So yeah, I’m a self-proclaimed piece of trash with a major thing for power imbalances, so what! 😅
> 
> What ‘imbalance’ really means is *lit teacher voice* up to you to decide.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The realities of touring make themselves known again, but that doesn’t necessarily put a damper on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M  
[Introspection on sexuality] [Brief sexual thoughts]
> 
> Introducing OC Soe ([Jessica Sula](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/scream/images/8/86/Jessica_Sula.png/revision/latest?cb=20170914021944)).

Anyone who wasn’t involved in catering, equipment handling, or had a core role in serving the band members, had more free-and-easy time between concerts, even if it only added up to a few hours every few days.

This gave them the flexibility to plan their intercity travel, and resulted in many of them, yourself included, taking longer but more affordable coach and carriage trips, from airports to stopover towns and eventually to the actual cities where the concerts were held.

These journeys were, apart from parties, where you met the most new people—sex workers, fan club members, temporary audio crew, and the occasional thick-skinned entertainment journalist who overstayed their welcome.

Usually, you made use of the coach trips on the long interstates to catch up on rest, looking out the window and letting your mind wander.

Now, it was relaxing to watch the streetscape of the motorway pass by, therapeutic in its regularity of sprawling shrubs and humble roadside settlements.

From the bus terminal in Budapest, you and your ragtag group split into taxis to get to the hotel you were meant to stay at over the next three nights (staying overnight at John’s room notwithstanding).

The hotel was along an avenue where upmarket stopped just short of giving way to outright lavish, and hence was a stone’s throw away from numerous of the city’s most prestigious hotels, where those in more core positions within the tour organisation preferred to stay at. 

You’d barely had the time to set down your luggage and page John about your safe arrival before Soe was eagerly knocking on the door that divided her adjoining room from yours, informing you that you’d both been invited by a-club-manager-who-knew-someone’s-friend on a city tour. Because you weren’t specifically in the mood where you wanted to be alone, experiencing the sights and sounds of the city with company did seem like a reasonably pleasant idea, so you instantly agreed to join them.

That was how you spent the afternoon, ticking off landmarks from a bucket list and socialising over pricey drinks, although after dinner you made your way to John’s hotel instead of continuing on with the others to the nightclubs.

* * *

You were satisfied to find the runner, a new face who was probably only hired for this week, still in the printing room. “Hi,” you greeted, catching his attention just as the printer churned out its last sheet. “What’s in there?”

“Uh, hold on…Sunday’s call sheet and catering menu, transport and accommodation for Fréjus, France…” He listed the varied contents of what had been faxed over from different sources as he flipped through the stack of papers, eventually getting to, “accounts and expenditure—”

“I can help you with that,” you offered, hand outstretched. “I’ll pass those to John. You need to give Jim Beach all the other documents; his room is on the twentieth storey.”

“Thanks!” He handed you a loose stack of faxed invoices and purchase orders, then turned right back to the papers in his arms, fumbling through them to, ostensibly, find the contacts page.

“Jim is at twenty-dash-zero-one,” you informed him, stifling your empathetic grin at how relieved he looked, “there’re literally only two suites per storey on the upper floors, so I doubt you’d get lost.”

You and runner made small talk until you parted ways to head towards different lift lobbies; him to the keycard-access only lifts that went to Miami’s executive suite on the second highest floor, you to the concierge that operated its own lift to get to John’s presidential suite on the highest floor.

* * *

“Oh,” John exclaimed as he accepted the worksheet you held out to him, “thank you. I was just thinking of going downstairs to collect it myself.”

You huffed in amused disbelief. “And scare yet another poor runner? Nah, that’s not a good idea. That guy was new, I think he would’ve _died_ of embarrassment if you went to him before he even got the chance to _do his job_.”

“Hmm.” John shrugged. “S’not like I’m awfully busy and need to have things delivered to me in the same building. Different story if I were across town.”

You sighed fondly and shook your head, knowing his mind wouldn’t be easily changed. “How’s your day been?” You instead asked.

He made a noncommittal hum. “Quite alright, in a way. Not too overwhelming.”

“But kinda boring?” You deduced.

“The conference did go _on_ for a bit, but then Wally was there to pick us up the moment it ended—bless him—and we eventually had the chance to relax after being driven downtown, to Belváros. We had dinner along the riverbank, at a nice al fresco place.”

“Mmm. Who’s ‘us’?”

“Ratty and myself, with two other road crew who also followed us to the conference,” he elaborated. “Matt and Simon. Don’t think you know them very well, though.”

“Ah, okay.”

John had taken his planner and ballpoint pen from his travel case, and was flipping through the worksheet to record and tally the numbers reported. It was an exercise he made time for roughly every week, and as such it gave him a good idea of how the tour’s expenditure was lining up with budget expectations.

His attention for the next few minutes was spent cross-checking figures and signing off on invoices, interspersed with giving you apologetic glances. “Sorry I’m so busy,” he sighed. “A couple minutes more and I promise—”

“If it’s only taking you a couple minutes then you shouldn’t apologise,” you assured, gesturing for him to bring his focus back to his work.

Both of you lapsed into amicable silence, with John perched on one of the sleek designer sofas in the sitting room—it was _separate_ from the living and dining room—sifting carefully through paperwork, while you paced the short stretch between an ornamental table and the nearest set of balcony doors and took in your surroundings.

The suite was as grand and lavish as the expected hotel guests it was catered towards; hallways leading to bedrooms and reception rooms you might poke your head around later and explore with John once he was done with his paperwork. There was marble under your feet, rugs and curtains whose intricate patterns could’ve been hand-woven for all you knew, specially commissioned artwork hanging from multiple walls and pillars, manicured potted plants that looked too lush and green for their environment.

The first time you’d been in a high-end residential suite was when John had invited you over for lunch at his service apartment in Munich, preparing and baking a shepherd’s pie in the large, ultramodern kitchen that was stocked daily by a butler, surrounded by magnet boards that displayed travel memorabilia of endless bragging potential, yet somehow managing to make the conversation entirely about getting to know _you_.

He preferred to spend time with friends individually or in small groups rather than hosting large gatherings for large groups, and although it was funny to look back on now, the amount of overthinking you’d done regarding _what being invited for a home-cooked lunch alone meant_ might’ve been a bit excessive.

Your idle thoughts were cut short when John cursed under his breath, eyeing some of the documents with annoyance. “These all aren’t GRN-ed properly,” he muttered, “that’s not right.” 

John narrowed his eyes, contemplating to himself. You knew from experience his general thought process regarding a lapse in paperwork would involve weighing the cost of disrupting his current schedule to settle the problem on the spot, against waiting for the next “non-essential” event on his schedule to settle it then.

The thing was, the birthday parties of his bandmates were the sole exceptions to his rule of treating parties as non-essential, meaning he wouldn’t touch tomorrow evening. Yet, having to unexpectedly spend this evening handling business instead of spending it with you like he’d intended would make him feel conflicted and guilty, something you never thought he deserved.

“You should just deal with this tonight,” you said, already starting out with a placating tone to meet John’s look of disappointment. “The sooner the better, right?”

He sighed, his silence an agreement that you were being rational, but that he wasn’t necessarily happy with it. “Murphy’s Law at work,” he grumbled. “We shouldn’t have jinxed tonight by planning to hang out.”

“Hmph, yeah,” you said, trying to cheer him up with a joke. “The universe must’ve realized we sailed through yesterday completely without incident, and decided to make up for it today.”

John huffed in frustration, but at least he was smiling again, sort of, glad to have found solidarity through venting. You had followed as he took his planner and paper documents and walked over to the hallway, ostensibly preparing to leave the suite. “I need to call up the people who were supposed to do the GRN for last week’s equipment transport and setup in Cologne,” he explained, “but first I’ll go find Miami and let him know about this.” 

The both of you now sat on a loveseat in the hallway, John slouched over and sighing again in resignation while you patted his thigh consolingly. “I don’t expect you to wait up for me,” he said, familiar words, as he had always preferred managing whatever he was able to himself, no matter how mundane or long it took, than pushing tasks to the A&R staff whom he already considered as having enough work on their hands. “You could, well, stay over here anyway, unless you’d rather…?”

“Yeah, I’ll return to my hotel in this case,” you confirmed, moving to wear your shoes. “Soe probably wouldn’t stay on too long for the nightclub hopping and could be back there right now. I might have supper with her.”

“Oh, of course,” John said. He smiled sheepishly. “I’m so grateful that I can always depend on you to be this understanding, but at the same time feel bad for _depending_ on you to understand me. Does that make sense?”

“No,” you joked, half-seriously chastising him, “because you don’t have to feel bad, _John_.”

He sighed, smiling ruefully and scratching the back of his neck, likely aware you wouldn’t budge on this matter.

There was a lull in the conversation as John laced his sneakers—they matched his jeans but were endearingly at odds with his dress shirt and steel blue suit jacket—before you followed him out of his suite to the hallway. He thanked the bellhop on duty for immediately calling for the lift, and before long the both of you had stepped inside, with only a few precious minutes before you would part ways and not see each other possibly until tomorrow evening at Roger’s party.

“Take care and don’t overwork yourself,” you told him, forgoing the banter for a sincere imploration.

“I will, love. And, I have a confession,” he said.

“Yeah?”

John liked to casually drape his arm around you sometimes when he stood beside you, like he was doing right now, so him holding you like this wasn’t out of the ordinary. Instead, it was the playful glint in his eyes that clued you in to what he was trying to achieve—a reminder of the fresh and exciting _dynamic_ that existed between the both of you, perhaps, reassurance that it was still on his mind.

“I was actually really looking forward to kissing you,” he said, leaning in close and smiling tenderly, “a lot.”

“Oh,” you said, being the only reply you could muster in your surprise. His lips had met yours by then, the soft press of his tongue making you melt into the kiss for a blissful second before he pulled away just as gently.

“I guess this’ll have to do for now,” John said, lips curled in a playful smile, but sweet and doting all the same. He made a quick glance at the screen that displayed the floor numbers, but otherwise his gaze was focused solely on you, further heightening your shyness.

“You’re teasing,” you whined, perhaps a bit too petulantly for your liking. In your defense, John’s charm was irresistible, and not having the time or privacy to properly make out was infuriatingly _unfair_.

He chuckled, leaning down to steal another quick kiss. “Let’s not jinx tomorrow, okay?” He said wryly. “Whenever we’re next able to, I’ll indulge you in a little something I have planned.”

You blushed, but nodded in agreement. “Are we going to…?”

The chime that announced the lift had reached the ground floor was a blessing in disguise, jolting you from your embarrassed fumbling. “I’m not intending for us to have sex, per se,” John explained, easily picking up on your question.

Suave and composed as ever, he led you through the vast, grand lobby with a comforting hand at the small of your back. He spoke softly, his words for your ears only. “But what I have planned isn’t _not-sexy_, either. It’ll be something in between, I suppose.”

“Okay,” you said, no less excited for that knowledge. What mattered was that John had put in thought into planning something romantic for you; the amount of physicality was secondary. “Will it be part of our date night on Sunday?”

“If you’re thinking Sunday is a good time for it, then absolutely. Or we could wait until France. Or Spain, or even for when we get back home. I’d still love to do _not-sexy_ things with you in the meantime.” The absurdity of his description made you giggle, and he beamed with affection. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You let me know when _you’re_ ready to explore this further. I can improvise.”

You smiled shyly and nodded. John’s decisiveness was not lessened by his willingness to let you set the pace, no less commanding of awe and deference, but more so.

Both of you had slowed to a halt near the lifts that would bring John to Miami’s suite, and after saying bye to John you would head back to your hotel a few streets over. “I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t overwork yourself, ‘kay?”

“’Kay,” he promised, eyes crinkling with affectionate gratitude. You exchanged a brief hug and he gave you a kiss on the nose, a gesture that felt more indulgent than a regular kiss and inexplicably left you with a fluttery, delighted heartbeat, even after you’d said, “Bye,” and turned to walk away.

* * *

You woke up on Saturday morning with the immediate intention of having breakfast in your room, overlooking the high street, rather than in the communal dining area, and then exploring the rest of the city you’d yet to see alone.

With most of Roger’s close friends and a large part of the road crew busy putting together tonight’s party, while John and Spike brought him around town so he’d be kept away from Freddie’s hotel, where they’d planned to hold the party, you figured you’d be able to go off on your own without being missed, and only get in touch with the others when it was time to head to Roger’s party.

The edges of summer showed on the city’s landscape in the form of flowery weeds thriving from pavement corners, and people sporting sunhats and sandals. It felt good to be a congruous and inconspicuous part of the landscape, like all the passers by around you.

By teatime you’d had enough of walking, feet aching but wanderlust momentarily satiated, and found a small table in the corner of a quaint coffeehouse to settle down at, flipping through your Lonely Planet guidebook, scribbling down your impressions of Hungary, and reliving the memories of other stops along the tour as you read back your old notes.

Paying for coffee with the Forint notes from your wallet brought to mind the matter of personal finances, and you mulled over how things had changed for you the past year, as your cappuccino turned from steaming to lukewarm.

The pay raise you’d gotten from your current job had made you decide to invest in a credit card subscription, something you’d taken as much pride in as having been able to rent your own small apartment. Being an entry-level ‘classic’ card, though, the conversion fees it had for paying in foreign currencies weren’t worthwhile to you, so you’d left it at home and had instead gone to the money changer to exchange currencies for travel.

What you did bring along on the tour was a credit card John had given you, a supplementary card linked to one of his bank accounts. It was sleekly designed, shockingly exclusive, had a long list of travel perks you couldn’t fully remember, and came with no hidden surcharges for things like foreign transactions, due to what you could only guess was an exorbitant subscription fee.

Receiving the card had been a bit of a surprise, gifted to you right before the tour, together with the heartfelt offer that you were welcome to move into his house. (“That is, only if you want to, and don’t feel obliged to answer right away,” John had repeated earnestly.)

It sat in your wallet just like the candid photo he’d taken of you on one of your earlier dates, and to you both these items were of equal value; the photo was a representation of John sharing his love of photography with you, while the card—_well_—it had always been seen by you more as a gesture of trust than something tangible, anyway.

You had yet to use that card to pay for anything.

As much as you didn’t like to admit it, thinking too closely about how it was linked to a bank account that, despite only being meant for “casual spending and shopping”, easily contained more than everything in your own bank a few times over, and how you were able to just _spend_ any amount of it, wasn’t something you were entirely comfortable with.

* * *

“That’s our new drummer, right there; we’ve replaced you!” Freddie pointed to the bespoke chocolate centerpiece on Roger’s birthday cake, earning a bout of uproarious laughter from everyone who had gathered in Freddie’s hotel suite, the party crowd vibrant and large enough to make even the spacious reception room adjacent to the living and dining rooms seem lively and just this side of crammed. 

Song singing and cake cutting was a chaotic and noisy affair, interspersed with the snapping of cameras and boisterous laughter from Freddie, who took it upon himself to be the unofficial emcee of the party, encouraging the crowd to cheer and applaud at as many opportunities as he saw possible, until even Roger became embarrassed with the attention.

It was by the grace of Roger’s PA Moxie that you managed to weasel your way past most of the ‘networking blockade’ and find Roger early on in the evening at one of the suite’s verandas. You stood by the side and listened in as he chatted with Mags and Crystal; the three of them were seemingly in the midst of sharing their people-watching observations of the invited guests.

“Apparently they heard me mention a book and magazine collection the other day, and extrapolated their own ideas from there,” Roger sighed, and from listening further you learnt he was referring to a trio of local deejays who wanted to differentiate their reporting of the band’s concert from the competition with some never-before-heard type trivia, regardless of credibility.

“Just redirect them to us,” Mags suggested wryly. “You know how much I love being quoted on your behalf.”

“Good lord, please don’t start, Magdelene,” Roger huffed. “Some of us still have a reputation to uphold, ya know. Listen, if anyone asks about my magazine collection, say they’re, ah, vintage Playboy issues.”

“Yes, of course,” Mags agreed, sarcasm evident in her voice. “_The Incredible, Astonishing Playboy_.”

“All in mint condition, no less,” Crystal chimed in.

“You bet,” Mags said. “With illustrations by Jack Kirby and Stan Lee.”

“We can tell them you collect erotic novels, too,” Crystal added. “Obscene, hardcore porn written by Jules Verne and HG Wells.”

“Shut up,” Roger mock complained. “I really mean it, though.” He sighed again. “I really wish I won’t be caught up in any lengthy unplanned interviews tonight.”

Recognising his friend’s tiredness, Crystal turned more sympathetic. “You can count on us to distract them with shop talk, don’t worry, mate.” He acknowledged your presence with a friendly nudge, grinning just as he seemed to come up with a contingency plan.

“I know what; Mags and I will find Miami and get him to do his myth-busting thing, and Y/n here will cheer you up with—” Crystal looked at the nondescript paper bag in your hand and shrugged, “—what I assume is either an actual gift or a booby trap.”

“Y/n!” Roger turned, only now noticing you standing behind him, to Crystal’s side. His eyes lit up with happiness.

“Happy birthday,” you announced, easily taking the chance to pick up a new conversation with Roger, while also conveying your unspoken gratitude to Mags and Crystal through a grateful nod just as they left, surreptitiously herding other guests away from the veranda like the crowd control experts they were.

Roger excitedly accepted your gift, and you glowed with satisfaction as recognition dawned on his expression when he opened the paper box where you’d written ‘street food’ on in intentionally haphazard penmanship, to reveal the most generic looking of hotdog buns, garnished with a ketchup-mustard helix, and a toothpick American flag staked in the centre.

“This is amazing!” Roger exclaimed, throwing his head back in laughter. He pulled you in for a quick hug, made slightly tricky from the fact that he had to hold the hotdog in one hand, which only made both of you laugh harder. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I’m proud to be giving you your cheapest birthday present this year,” you joked, silently marveling at how, a year ago, you wouldn’t have predicted yourself even becoming a part of Roger’s life, let alone a close friend.

“Low price but…” He paused for a second to chew around the mouthful he’d just eaten, raising his eyebrows in an ‘I’m pleasantly impressed by the taste’ expression.

“Low price, high value, no doubt,” he begun again. “You’re a bloody genius.” He smiled warmly. “John gave me a Golden Age era copy of Green Lantern—dunno where he got it from—but technically it would’ve been dirt cheap to buy at its time, too, so there’s that,” he said. “It’s, ah, from the forties,” he added on, realizing you might not have understood.

“Yeah I know,” you said, biting back a smile at Roger’s quizzical frown.

“About the Golden Age of comics, or—?”

“Yup, that,” you said, “_and_ where he got it from.”

“You _knew_ what John was getting me?” Roger’s dumbfounded expression made you bubble over with laughter, and he made a few false starts before continuing, “Brian, Freddie, Spike, Crystal, Rats—well, _everyone_—we never know what sort of letter or gift he would give any of us during one another’s birthdays, weddings, Christmas, what-have-ya.”

He looked at you in wonder, something akin to pride in his eyes. “That’s a very strategically exclusive position you’re in, Y/n.”

It still brought a warm fuzzy feeling to your chest to have something you already knew stated aloud. “Good for me, I guess,” you said, shrugging away your bashfulness.

“So, where’d he get it from?”

“It wouldn’t be fun if you just found out like that,” you said, smirking.

“A private museum? An auction? One of our mutual friends who’s a comics collector? Aw, come on!” Roger mock complained, making a show of grumbling a bit before changing the subject completely, all the while munching on his hotdog. He looked a lot more laid back than earlier on, you noted with no small amount of satisfaction.

* * *

“Hey John,” Soe greeted cheerfully as she sat down to your right on the plush couch in one of Freddie’s guest rooms. Dispersed across the various rooms of the suite like this, the party crowd produced much less disruptive background noise. “I was just catching up with Simon earlier. Y’all had a good time exploring downtown yesterday?”

“We did, Sofia, thanks,” he replied from your left, smiling. “How was your day, or should I say, _two_ days of touring the city with the other medics?”

“Oh, don’t be jealous of us now,” Soe preened, unsuccessfully withholding a giggle at the goofy face John made that conveyed mock jealousy.

The two of them chattered, with Soe doing most of the talking, prompting John with questions about what he and the roadies were up to following yesterday’s high-profile press conference held at the historic Castle Quarter.

“Even though we only got to actually sit down and have a meal at one out of the many iconic restaurants downtown, we still managed to see quite a lot, and get to talk to some people,” he said, relaying to her details about Ratty’s “economical” attempt to get enough video for required publicity purposes by posing as John’s over-excited tourist friend and filming anyone and anything they came across.

“Did you meet anyone interesting?” Soe asked.

“A lot of interesting people, yeah,” John said, mentioning his observations of locals and tourists alike, and going on a brief tangent about how well the gothic and baroque architecture of downtown complemented the modern buildings, before also mentioning, “Out of the few groups of tourists we came across, one was a family from Britain.” 

She nodded, smiling. “You could tell from their accent?”

“Yep,” he confirmed, “once they started talking. Any one of the British accents are quite hard to miss, to be honest.”

“Ha, true. What did you talk to them about?”

“Nothing much other than where they’re from, what their hobbies and pastimes are, you know, that sort of thing.” He smiled. “Their young daughter was quite amusing. And surprisingly chatty.”

You smiled to yourself, trying to imagine how the interaction could have gone. John treated children very respectfully and endearingly, calling everyone “young man” or “young lady”, and taking their words seriously. The idea of him trying to have a sincere conversation with a giggling child made your heart warm with fondness.

“Her parents were absolutely lovely too,” he continued. “Awfully polite. Turns out they live in London—Wolmer Gardens, in fact.”

“Aww, that’s amazing,” Soe said. “Did they recognise you by any chance?”

John shrugged. “Yeah, in a way. Like I said, they were really friendly, and we made good conversation…you know...”

You sighed good-naturedly, watching Soe nod along and smile expectantly at John, hanging on his every word. You were amused at how disproportionately excited your friends got listening to him speak, but knew it was more from the joy of his company rather than the actual content of his words. “I like your enthusiasm, Soe, but you gotta admit, John’s terrible at telling stories.” 

She gasped in horror. “Y/n, how _could_ you?” She scolded, though she was fighting back a laugh at John’s reaction, endeared by his intentionally forlorn expression. “Look, you’ve made him sad!”

“He’s _boring_!” You argued. “If you want to hear anything exciting, we gotta ask Rats,” you said, even as you tried to hold back your own laughter. John’s eyes were narrowed in mock grief as he clutched at his heart, further encouraging Soe’s giggling, acting out his mime of heartbreak to his audience of two.

“Hey Ratty,” you beckoned, glad that John’s antics had gained his attention as he passed your table by. Right behind him was Mags, the both of them seemingly intrigued by what you wanted to ask, and happy to be waved over to join you. “Tell Soe and I how you and John met this family of British tourists from Wolmer Gardens yesterday.”

Ratty grinned, turning to John to assess his reaction. “Has he told you about them? Oh boy! Well. Right after dinner when the other guys who tagged along parted ways with the two of us, old Johnny boy here said he wanted to take a second stroll along the Promenade, since there were too many screaming teenagers earlier in the afternoon to, I quote, “appreciate the atmosphere of the place properly.”

“So, okay, along the river we happily walked, me with my camera at the ready. _Just_ in case my beautiful muse does something very unique and un-Deaky-like, such as approach a fellow human being and initiate a conversation out of his own free will.”

“Get to the point, Ratty,” John nudged, making a show of looking at his watch. Mags giggled.

“Storytelling isn’t about efficiency, no matter what you think. Calm down,” Ratty retorted. “Lemme finish.”

“Finish?” John grinned, smugly amused as always to have gotten a reaction out of his friend. “You sound like you’ve barely started.”

Ratty tsked, intentionally playing into John’s goading. “Zip it, man!” He said, swatting at John’s arm until he relented and allowed Ratty to continue.

“So you met the British family while walking along the riverbank, I guess?” Mags prompted, diplomatically getting Ratty to condense his retelling of events.

“Yeah—well, actually—we met their daughter first, so to speak, when we saw her by herself just seemingly loitering near the promenade railings that overlooked the river.

“Deaky worried she might’ve gotten lost from her parents, asked me about it, then decided to go up and talk to her. _You see?_ Good thing I had my camera ready with me!

“The girl—who was about six or seven, I’d say—scurried away after a while, giggling to herself, so we thought, “Well, there’s that.” So we just kept walking.”

Ratty paused for dramatic effect, ever the captivating narrator.

Soe and Mags probably couldn’t tell just from John’s expression, but you’d come to recognise that him fiddling with the collar of his shirt—or the neckline of his jumper in this case—meant he was probably self-conscious about what Ratty was going to say next.

“It was only a minute later that we saw the same girl running back towards us,” Ratty continued. “‘_Mister, mister!’_” He imitated, waving his raised hand eagerly, earning a chuckle from the group.

“She’d brought her parents in tow; turns out they were just sitting inside one of the cafes all along while she had pranced about outside—”

“Er, yes, I told them about this part already,” John interjected.

“_Really?_” Ratty exchanged glances with you, clearly unconvinced, smirking. “Including how the parents were some of the most passionate, avid Queen fans we’d ever met?”

You burst out in laughter, delighting in the way Soe’s and Mag’s entire expressions lit up in shock. “Oh my gosh!” Soe squealed, clearly articulating Mag’s own excitement as well. “What happened?”

Ratty chuckled, wagging his finger at John and tsking in disapproval. “How can you say you told your friends “this part already” when you clearly left _everything important_ out?”

“It’s not that important!” John protested, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Good grief, Deaks, you’re the _worst_ storyteller ever.” Ratty huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn’t help his own laughter then, further buoyed when John made his pretend-sad face.

“So what did the parents say?” Mags pressed excitedly. 

“Well, you know, they were awfully nice people—”

“They had enough album sleeves and magazine cutouts of the band lying around their house for their daughter to have recognised Deaky,” Ratty said, cutting off John’s attempt at deflection. “And they knew about us stopping by Budapest at this date—though they lamented about not getting tickets for Sunday—which was probably why when their girl ran up to them and told them about seeing “the Queen man”, as she put it, they believed her enough to actually come looking for us.”

“It was all quite unexpected,” John allowed, “and very flattering. But there’s nothing much more to say—”

“The dad wouldn’t stop gushing about he and his wife going together to see the Wembley concert earlier this month,” Ratty continued, interrupting John again, much to your amusement. “They got a stall seat near stage left. _‘I swear it felt like Freddie was waving to us at one point!’_” He imitated.

“Yes, they said so much about the others,” John agreed, habitually redirecting the attention to something else. “They were absolutely star struck by Freddie’s singing. And, you know, Roger’s backing vocals, Spike’s piano playing, and Brian’s improvisation.”

“And _your_ own performance, John, I’m sure,” Mags added on, grinning. “They must’ve been overjoyed to introduce him in-person to their daughter,” she commented, turning to Ratty for confirmation. You couldn’t help your snickering at how astute she was, knowing that asking John wouldn’t yield the answer she was after. 

“_Oh_, definitely,” Ratty agreed, putting a hand up in a ‘hush’ gesture to prevent John from deflecting the conversation any further, much to everyone’s amusement. “The mum even pointed to my camera and said, “Please tell me you got a candid photo of John and Emily together,” which honestly made me flipping proud to announce I got a _video_ of them together!”

* * *

The rest of the evening was spent listening to similarly engaging stories, even after you and John gravitated in different directions again, pulled by different friend groups.

Your travelling mates caught you up to how their previous night and today had been, the table often bursting into uproarious laughter at a particularly silly or embarrassing anecdote. One of the roadies brought cards along, and you won a couple of dollars at Bluff.

The drinks were free flowing and innovatively curated, a crowd-pleasing mix of classic and quirky, and though you didn’t like to over-drink at parties, you made it a point to try as many of the colourful ones served in tiny rock glasses as possible, the enjoyable company and feel-good atmosphere reflected in your more adventurous palette.

Your expectations of this party had been exceeded, you thought happily to yourself, feeling a sense of fondness as you observed John chatting with the events coordinator whom he’d hired to oversee the drinks and catering. He was leaned against the wall, slouched slightly to be at eye level with the shorter man, posture carefree and seemingly nonchalant, but giving his full and sincere attention to his conversational partner all the same.

Turning your heel to continue with your aimless stroll and to give them some privacy, you threaded your way through the thinning crowd until you found a corner of the suite’s main balcony where you could be by yourself for a relaxing few minutes.

The city had mostly gone to sleep by now, terraces and mid-rise buildings standing in the dark as only the streetlights of major roads shone down on lonely tarmac, a fascinating contrast to the round-the-clock nature of London. Your thoughts returned to yesterday evening’s brief time spent with John.

His flirty promise of ‘not-exactly-sex’ evoked enough of uncharted territory to feel exhilarating, yet was based off enough of what you’d already experienced—being touched, and being gently guided through motions instead of having to initiate them—to feel comfortingly familiar.

You stifled a yawn. The toll of nonstop socialising all evening was catching up to you in the form of exhaustion and sleepiness. You had work tomorrow, and John had to perform. Would fooling around in bed later be feasible, given that sleep was so precious?

Letting yourself be brought to that intensely zen state of submissive bliss was something you’d only _just_ begun to explore. You couldn’t tell if it was _because_ of John’s gentle and soothing touches or _in addition_ to it, but you could at least tell that he wasn’t impatient on his end.

It was still a new and unfamiliar concept to you, that John would waste his devastating charm on teasing and seducing you but not let it lead to any grinding or fingering or oral, let alone anything penetrative. _It wasn’t wasted if you’d felt good from it_, the more self-assured part of your mind helpfully supplied.

You concluded that if John thought you weren’t being reciprocal enough or adventurous enough, he would at least be upfront about it. Brutal honesty with those he cared about was one of his defining traits, whether viewed as a good thing or not, and unless you’d unknowingly made him walk on eggshells around you, you were certain even being in a significant relationship wasn’t going to change that.

* * *

By five in the morning, the last of the invited guests had taken their leave, thanking Roger profusely—and slightly drunkenly, in some cases—and leaving him to stretch, yawn, and look over the disarrayed reception room with an air of wry contentment.

Roger had ushered you and John out the door with a two-thirds full, leftover bottle of scotch and the insistence that there was no need to oversee the logistics of returning Freddie’s suite to pristine condition, ironic considering how Moxie was hovering nearby and himself trying to get Roger to take it easy, knowing that with the road crew’s experienced planning, things would be taken care of.

“Drink to this after you’ve successfully gotten the birthday boy tucked into bed,” John said wryly, gifting the scotch to Moxie and giving Roger a pointed look over his shoulder. “You’re my co-timekeeper and our main soprano, don’t wear yourself out being a mother hen and go to sleep _soon_,” he nagged.

“Takes one to know one,” Roger retorted good-naturedly, exchanging goodnights with the both of you before letting the bellhop on duty call for a lift and arrange for a security escort for the short walk back to John’s hotel.

Back at John’s suite, he breezed past any possible awkward pleasantries you might’ve come up with by crowding you against the hallway mirror, kissing you deeply until you were both breathing heavily.

Your fingers were curled in his hair, your other hand gripping at the fabric of his pullover, and your entire body was pressed up against his, needing, _craving_ the warm contact and the solid feeling of him.

“Missed having you all to myself,” John crooned, the teasing and possessiveness in his statement sending a frisson of heat straight down your body and curling around your clit.

He kissed you again, slow and purposeful, sweetly enough to make your chest ache pleasantly. “_Mmm_,” he hummed, pulling away with a satisfied look, eyes hooded and lips curved in a gorgeous smile.

“Missed you, too,” you mumbled, eyes downcast. You suddenly felt inexperienced and shy, needing John’s guidance, yearning for his approval.

Both were present in great measure as he wrapped an arm around your waist and led you through the dining and ante room to the main bedroom. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you affirmed, to which John hummed in approval. Your carryon bag of spare luggage sat at the foot of the poster bed, ostensibly delivered by Wally sometime prior. He’d been graciously looking after that bag and the dry cleaning of its clothes for you during the tour, bringing it with him so that it could be delivered together with John’s luggage to his suite if need be.

John squatted down in front of your spare luggage and took out your toiletries pouch. “The sun rises in a few hours,” he mused, digging around the pouch to produce your toothbrush and comb. “I’m sure you want sleep.”

“I’m, um, just sleeping here?” You weren’t disappointed, merely curious.

“If I kissed you again I think we might end up not sleeping at all tonight,” he teased, delighting in the way you visibly stuttered for breath. “Yes, love, we’re _literally_ just sleeping together,” he said. “I bet you’re exhausted.”

“I am quite tired,” you agreed demurely, smiling.

“Tonight shall be one of those ‘nap first, bathe later’ nights,” John continued, “or should I say mornings,” speaking of a habit usually practiced on concert nights, but also on the rare nights when he would stay through the entire duration of a party and only return to his suite in the early hours of the morning. (You’d started the tour teasing him for his “lack of hygiene”, but soon after admitted it was a good compromise of a routine.)

Placing your toothbrush and comb in your hands, he reached for a pair of complimentary slippers and placed them at your feet. “Go freshen up and then we’ll kip here on the bed for a bit, alright?” He gently coaxed. He pointed to a glass vial on the dresser. “I got us some lavender oil that’d also freshen up the air and drive away any of that ‘party smell’ in the meantime,” he said wryly. “We can bathe properly and then order in breakfast later when the sun rises, while housekeeping gives us fresh bedsheets, then possibly have a second nap before show prep begins. Sound okay?”

You nodded demurely, feeling unexpectedly flustered and inexplicably turned on, in spite of the full knowledge John wasn’t going to _do_ anything tonight. The plan itself was smart and simple, neither unorthodox nor something you couldn’t come up with yourself, but having John lay it out _for_ you, acquiring the scented oil and arranging for your belongings to be delivered to his suite, then asking for your agreement in that kind, undemanding tone of his; it made you flush under all the attention as a tender warmth settled in your chest.

You let him walk you over to the en-suite, switch on the lights, and fill up a glass of tap water for you. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He said. “Miami told me I should expect a faxed statement from the Cologne company that was delivered to the ante room earlier; I’ll quickly check on it and only need a moment.” He left you with a reassuring squeeze of your shoulders, and a feeling of immense adoration.

True to his word, John was back—with his own toothbrush and hairbrush—just as you were done using the washroom. “Your pyjamas are on the bed,” he said, smiling widely when he met your shy gaze and leaning forward to kiss your forehead.

The bedroom already smelled of lavender when you returned, as the bottle had been uncapped and a few reed diffusers inserted. The fragrance was thin enough to be unobtrusive, yet noticeable enough to feel romantic and sweet. 

You settled tentatively on the uncovered bed near the pillows, crossed-legged, eyeing both of John’s oversized tee shirts—either of them you could wear—your panties, and his briefs, laid out on the duvet in front of you.

John emerged from the en-suite in just his briefs, having put the rest of his clothes in the washroom’s hamper just like you, hair fluffed up from a quick, cursory comb-through.

It was almost ridiculous how you’d been part of as many stayover-bedtimes as you had—be it at John’s suite on tour, or at one of his houses, or John staying over at your own apartment—without ever voicing what you’d been wanting to suggest for some time now, held back by the worry that your words might be misconstrued.

Thank goodness John was here to guide you, and to offer the comforting knowledge that nothing would be misconstrued so long as you both understood each other well.

“I was thinking…” You trailed off timidly, blushing when John smiled and looked at you expectantly.

“Come on, love,” he encouraged gently, sitting himself down beside you and pulling you in for a loose hug, “let’s hear it.”

“Could we sleep in just our underwear?” You squeaked, too shy to meet his eyes. Cuddling in your pyjamas and feeling his body through the layer of soft cotton was nice in its own way, but there was an undeniable _yearning_ simmering in you tonight, a desire for warm skin and lithe muscle and the faint tickle of his chest hair while being embraced tenderly.

“Oh,” John said, before he chuckled mirthfully, squeezing you in fond affection. “Why not? Of course, love,” he agreed, cradling your face and settling for placing a kiss to your forehead when you squirmed against him tilting your chin up.

He moved to bundle up the tee shirts, at the same time handing you your fresh pair of panties. “I’ll _get rid_ of these, yeah?” He joked, referring to the tee shirts as he stood from the bed to set them on the nearby dresser while you changed underwear.

You couldn’t help but ogle as John changed into his fresh pair of briefs, his back towards you. Bending forward to step into his underwear, even just for an instant, pulled the sharp lines of his thighs and calves into stunning focus.

He turned back to climb onto the bed, and even with his cock soft, the low rise cut of his briefs drew focus to the tautness of his stomach and the dimples at his hipbones. You winced inwardly at the delicious heat that _surged_ through you, strong enough to make you wet with arousal. _John might not necessarily be comfortable with your attention_, you thought guiltily, finally averting your eyes.

You had to get better at knowing where exactly he stood on the ‘not-sex to sex’ scale at any given time, you realized. It was the responsible thing to do. The more you’d questioned your own preferences and inclinations, making time especially the past few days to really consider how exactly you were attracted to John, the more you’d realized that the answer was never set in stone.

Even day to day, your willingness to act on your feelings of attraction would be different. You suddenly felt foolish for having taken for granted John’s implicit acceptance of your potential advances, even if they were just thoughts in your head right now.

With the flick of a bedside switch, John turned off the bedroom lights, leaving only a dim stream of light from the en-suite, the fragrance of lavender, the cool freshness of the sheets, and the weathered feel of his hands as he reached out to you, lying on his side.

He sighed happily as he pulled you into a loose embrace, tangling your legs together and, at least for now, seemingly unbothered by your embarrassed squirming as you tried to discreetly manoeuvre yourself under the blankets so you wouldn’t end up accidentally straddling or humping him in the middle of sleep.

The comfort of lying together made you complacent, deciding to luxuriate in the moment and forget your worries. You would talk to John in the light of morning, tactfully enough to not ruin the mood for date night but truthfully enough to not compromise the gradual momentum of openness you’d been building up the past few days.

“’Night, baby,” he murmured, shuffling forward to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Sleep tight,” you replied, smiling dreamily at the use of the endearment. You tried not to fall asleep immediately, in order to savour John’s proximity and every point of contact between his skin and yours, but it likely wasn’t more than a few minutes before exhaustion finally tugged you into a pleasant slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More time skips and more peripheral characters to add a bit of variety, I hope it works fine.
> 
> Low key heads up for some upcoming ‘challenges that won’t resolve so easily’ because I sorta have a ‘no pain no gain’ philosophy re narratives, but That Being Said, I’m definitely still very much a fluff-over-angst kinda person, so if you’re here for the soft uwu feels then please don’t worry! 🥰 
> 
> *
> 
> [Ace Week 2020](https://www.aceweek.org/) is from Sunday 25th Oct to Saturday 31st Oct. It is an annual pride event that focuses on celebrating the amazing existence of a-spec people, as well as outreach to potential allies, and as of this year it’s been going on for a decade already! 🖤

**Author's Note:**

> Aight, I’m not even going to pretend that I have an updating schedule. I’m literally just winging this, guys. I’m still emotionally invested in this story, but progress will be v e r y s l o w. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who’s been patiently following along, and thank you for the kudos and comments!


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